


A Winter Soldier Comes to Claptrap

by PervoServo



Series: Claptrap Tales [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: A better world through junkyards, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Badass femmes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexuality, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Clint Barton, Bottom Steve Rogers, Breathplay, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is a vampire sort of but not the way you're thinking, Cannibalism, Choking, Climate Change, Deprogram the one you love, Dirty Talk, Doing bad things with a metal hand, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Felching, Frottage, Fucking in pantries, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gen, Gratuitous Smut, Human Experimentation, Human/Vampire Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, Influenza, Inspired by 80s Mad Max and my love of trash picking, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Lots of bludgeoning, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Nick Fury has his secrets, Nipple Play, Not So Distant Future, Not-all-happy ending but read sequel, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Other, Pansexual Natasha Romanov, Pegging, Plague, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Sexuality spectrum, Sexy Times, Skinny!Steve, Slowburn but then blazing af, Steve is as cocky and idealistic as ever, Strap-Ons, Superflu, Switching, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Topping from the Bottom, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Bites, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, Voyeurism, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, no-serum steve rogers, versatile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 130
Words: 340,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PervoServo/pseuds/PervoServo
Summary: In the not so distant future, most of humanity has died off. Steve Rogers, once a gangly kid from Brooklyn and now a slightly less gangly twenty something, has never imagined things like super human experiments even exist. He and a merry band of misfits eke out survival in their sliver of post-apocalyptic heaven, the junktown of Claptrap.  But when a Winter Soldier - a government bioweapon designed to survive a nuclear winter that never came - crosses their path, it's a reminder that the outside world (and the past) can't be kept out by even the highest walls.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Sam Wilson, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov & Original Character(s), Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Original Female Character(s), Clint Barton/Original Female Character(s), Clint Barton/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Brock Rumlow, Steve Rogers/Jack Rollins, Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson/Carol Danvers, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: Claptrap Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924240
Comments: 1011
Kudos: 198





	1. This is your post-apocalypse wake up call.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve mulls over not so comfortable thoughts from his very comfortable bed.

For the last two years nearly to the day, since being gifted his own residence in Claptrap, Steve has woken the same way. Taking a long silent moment, eyes closed, to experience what is and isn't there. 

First the smells - herbs he's harvested and hung to dry mostly, last night's snack, occasionally a hint of whatever Vic's brewed up in the still and brought to share, flowers when they're blooming. There's a faint note of oil and engine grease ever present from his work clothes, and a not quite placeable scent leftover in the steel corrugated shipping container that makes up the bulk of his home. All in all it's a nice mix, homie in the way their tiny low income apartment had been, their smells and the smells of the neighbors all blending together.

_He notices the lack of **their** stench more, all those unwashed bodies packed into old cargo vans and truckbeds or huddled on the stoney ground around a charred piece of...sure, he'll call it meat. That was the worst, how it smelt awful and good all at once. He hasn't eaten an animal, any kind of animal, in years. _

Then there's the loose, open comfort of his nightshirts. Today it's his oldest one, fashioned from a tattered linen tablecloth he had folded in half and sewn roughly down the sides, leaving space for his slender arms to poke through and the bottom open for his spindly legs. He didn't think to measure back then and cut the neckhole too wide, which let it slide a bit off one shoulder. Nat calls it his sexy nightdress and jokingly asks to borrow it at least twice a month.

Next there's the feel of his sheets, still a thing of luxury even if these are a threadbare polyester blend and not Egyptian cotton, hung to dry just a little rough in the arid breeze. He loves waking up to them under the comforting weight of blankets cobbled together from any scavenged scrap of heavy fabric he could find - car seat and furniture upholstery mostly. 

_He appreciates the lack of waking in stiff, crusted jeans that he's spent days in, still up and belted if he's lucky. Boots on and already rubbing against the raw places where his socks have worn through. What's left of an oversized peacoat as his blanket, his numb arm as a pillow if his hands are free that night. **Them.** Pressed near. _

His bed is blissfully empty as he stretches out like a starfish.

Then there's the sounds. The quiet meanderings of the first few residents of Claptrap to leave their shanties, the imperative to get certain tasks done well before the blistering heat takes hold spurring them from their hammocks and bed rolls. Most mornings there are birds too. More and more as the trees grow taller. One sings a sweet, if off key, tune somewhere nearby. 

_No chorus of snores. No grunting or whimpers he has to pretend he doesn't know the source of. Even if they come from him. Especially if they come from him. _

He's ready for the last portion of his morning ritual, slowly opening his eyes to take in what he's worked very hard to turn from junk into a home. First the ceiling, mostly covered in collages of little found objects and old magazine clippings with potted plants hanging from hooks welded to the metal. Then around the room to his possessions, already expanded several hundredfold since his arrival. Piles of books, more plants, hand tools, containers of all shapes and sizes holding this and that, a chrome and seafoam green Formica dining set made before his grandparents were born that had only needed a little work. Then to the window, his pride and joy, large and bordered with stained glass, the soft colors of the sunrise just starting to spill in. 

Then he'll see the best part. He's alone. 

A loud rapping on his door - hardwood and from the 1920s judging by the handle that had still been attached, but reinforced with riveted strips of steel - pops his bubble of contentment. 

"Get your skinny ass up. It's misfiring again!" 

Clint. Fucking Clint.

Steve needed breathable air, potable water, nutritious food and adequate shelter like any other human being. However what really kept him going was a bullheaded streak a mile wide, a need for justice bordering on fatalistic in how often it spurred him to involve himself in other people's business and a strong sense of irony.

It seemed he had spent his entire childhood sick, bedridden as much as not, costing his mother the few dimes she had on medical bills. He couldn't so much as step on a playground without catching something. So how had he, the Notorious I.L.L., managed to be one of the glorious 10% immune to the pandemic? It had taken his mother, his neighbors, his city. Even Frank Delino, a painfully handsome mass of a boy that used to kick Steve's ass after school until an "incident" with a trash can lid made him think better of it. Frank was the picture of strapping youth. Steve had found him dead in his own vomit in the stairwell as he left the only home he'd ever known for the last time. He was eighteen years old.

He had been despised in his Brooklyn tenement as a freak. A quiet, bird-bodied nerd with his nose constantly in a book until an outburst of rage would send him flying at one of the bigger boys like a rabid spider monkey. In this new world, all that useless knowledge suddenly had real-life applications. His explosive anger got him out of (okay, _and into_) a lot of bad situations and earned him as much respect as ire. His ability to occupy himself, to be alone, kept him sane when everything came tumbling down, when there were weeks on the road without passing another living soul.

Somehow - after natural disasters fueled by climate change wiped out millions, after the drought, famine and resource wars that followed killed millions more, and the bug took most everyone who was left - loser Steve found himself with an excess of friends. He even supposed this fuckboi-who-sort-of-grew-up standing at his door was his friend in a way. Friends do shoot arrows into people for you in **this** world. 

Steve would think about the _irony of it all_ and laugh. Sometimes it would be at inappropriate times that at best got him looks once reserved for the babbling homeless and at worst got his lights punched out depending on the parties present. Him, Steven Grant Rogers, 120 pounds soaking wet who spent the first three months of his life hospitalized, was one of the genetically blessed and post-apocalyptically popular.


	2. A boy and his cog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve considers his life situation as he gets roped into Clint's shenanigans.

"So can you fix it or what, bookboy?" Clint is bleary eyed, his short hair a greasy mess. Steve knows he and Nat were up all night fighting again and he wants to rub it in his face for ruining his last few moments of solitude earlier. 

Instead he says "It's fucked," flatly and turns to walk off. 

"Nononono wait!" Clint moves to grab Steve by the arm, thinks better of it after last time. He likes his pride hurt more than his face. "I apologize...for the bookboy thing." 

"And?" Steve retorts, turning slowly with his arms crossed, looking equally like a factory steward and an angsty teen doing community service in his oversized tan jumpsuit and duct-taped work boots.

"Waking you up early." Clint grits his teeth and clasps his hands together, almost as if praying for this part to be over. 

_"And?" ___

"Parading around in your sexy nightdress last week, **God!**" he blurts out a little too fast and _way_ too loud. "I was drunk! And...trying to get in good with the wife. Look, please?" Now Clint has a painfully guileless desperation on his face.

Steve lets out a huff and pokes a finger towards the other man's considerably wider chest. "Fine, I'll go to the yard and try to find a new cog but you have to promise me you'll keep this thing lubricated."

"Heh. Lubricated," Clint chuckles.

Steve had helped Clint design the machine and somehow became it's de facto mechanic. It extruded melted aluminum scrap into tubing for arrow shafts and Clint had mumbled "heh heh, shafts" at predictable intervals through the whole process. Carbon shafts were more durable but they couldn't work out production. It had been quite an undertaking for the amateur inventor but ultimately he pitied Clint. What is an archer without his arrows?

"I'm serious. This is the third time. You owe me!" The blonde steps forward and scowls up at his personal nuisance. Clint is all of 5'9" but he's still got four inches on Steve and never lets him forget it.

"Anything!" Just like that, the fool is beaming. 

"Gas for the 'bile. Water for the trip, for me and Win. Snacks. Lots of snacks. No fucking jerky this time." Steve starts counting off on his long, spindly fingers, deep voice raspy from the smoke that had been billowing out of the machine a few minutes ago. 

"Done, done!" The other man nods vigorously, _ like a big stupid dog,_ Steve thinks to himself

"Your goggles. Not the best ones. But the good ones." 

"To borrow?" There's a note in Clint's voice that says he already knows the answer, dreads it, is begging without words for it to not be so.

"To keep, you idgit." Steve knits his brows, unmoved. 

"Fine, fine. Anything else? A kidney? I have _one_ left." Clint pouts.__

"That'll do, pig, that'll do." Steve's sour face breaks into a smirk as he pats the taller man's shoulder, a rare physical interaction that does not go unnoticed. 

Clint delivers on his promises, serving up a variety of not-quite-stale single serving bagged chips and gummies, his second best pair of goggles, two gallon milk jugs of water (sediment free) and a pile of saccharine praise that falls on deaf ears. Steve only had a tiny amount of regret for making him squirm so much. The truth was, neither he nor Win had been to the yard in a while and it was one of their favorite activities.

Claptrap was a junktown, a settlement formed partially or in whole because of its proximity to a junkyard, dump or scrap yard. People in the old world wasted so much, right up until the end. Furniture, scrap metal, machine parts, clothing, all manner of useful and unuseful but shiny trinkets, reusable containers, even food unopened in boxes and jars and cans. The massive facility now known only as the yard had served many purposes for the dozens of small communities that had once surrounded it - auto junkyard, trash dump, recycling collection facility. 

The sand had started to claim the yard, the same way it would eventually claim the lower parts of Claptrap. A good part of their labor pool had been devoted to fighting it, trying to push it back as it expanded from the dried out wasteland, cleaning it daily off the buildings at the bottom of the small hill that formed the center of the community. It would blow in constantly, coating everything. It had been Steve's idea to use the sand _to stop the sand_. 

They had scavenged a facility that had bags and bags of sodium carbonate. Steve had read in a book it was used for detergent among other things. Most importantly, it could be added to sand with limestone, easily accessible in the dried-out riverbed nearby, to form glass. He and Win and some others had built equipment to mix the ingredients, melt them down with crushed scrap glass from the yard, and pour the molten goo into molds to make all manner of things, most importantly glass block. It had taken weeks to get the mixture and the process right, months more for manufacturing and assembly, but they had a wall 30 feet high and 6 ft thick with regular buttresses climbing up like steps every hundred feet around the whole town, with extra room left for expansion. That had turned Steve from an annoying know-it-all into the resident boy-genius and earned him his very own "house" set up in just the right way on the hillside where nothing obstructed his view of the sky.

The yard, over an hour from Claptrap on the modified snowmobiles they had learned to ride through the sand, was impractical to haul block to. They had gotten the giant magnetic crane running well enough to pile up flattened vehicles from the junkyard around the area and even to start a corridor running out away from the scrap yard gate in the direction of the settlement. Win welded whatever sheet metal they could find over the outside to form a more solid barrier against the ever blowing sand. The dump itself was in the middle of a ringshaped man-made hill, the only high spot for miles. There had been talk of settling on the hill, letting the sand claim the scrapyard below, but between the ever-present stench of the dump, possible contamination of the soil and how much closer to the wasteland it was, it seemed impractical. 

Teams would go in, use large, flat sled-like platforms with low sides (constructed from scrap lumber mostly and called "skiffs" because of their similarity to the style of boat) to drag trash onto the hilltop. It was given a rough sort on the hillside, separating what was truly useless from the rest. The useful would be dragged down the hill and into the now mostly empty scrapyard, to be separated meticulously into various categories. Things like spare parts and household objects that were not immediately claimed were set up under a series of makeshift tents on the grounds - they called it the Super Store and had even scavenged a few shopping carts for its "patrons" to use. Steve knew there were boxes and boxes there of nuts, screws, bolts, gears and the like. Maybe there would even be a looter or two they would have to dance with on the way.

He was so fucking bored of fixing machines and making windows, but it was a far preferable life to the one he had had only a few years before.


	3. Love in the time of Super Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve remembers he has a heart. And a dick. And zero relationship experience.

There had been a period Steve could grudgingly admit to himself, riding the 'bile through the dunes with his arms around a waist just a bit smaller than his own, he had been in love with Win. 

Their's had been a pretty typical meet cute. Steve had calmly explained to a pack of arguing Claptrappers that they could just take the hinges off a set of double doors they'd been battering at. When they finally listened, after a chorus of variations on "shut up, new guy," both doors came down in one piece, strips of metal soldered across them from the inside.

Nick - impressed but irritated with Steve as would become their usual - decided to reward (punish) his newfound friend by making him go in first. A slight figure wearing full welding regalia had ran from the darkness to swing a lit cutting torch at him almost immediately. 

They pieced together from the discovery of a room filled with bunk beds, and the person's furious, unintelligible yelling, that the factory had probably been using illegal Chinese laborers and housing them on the grounds. The "dorm" locked from the outside and had a toilet, fully visible to the entire room, in one corner. The bottom mattresses each featured two neatly arranged corpses save the last, sporting a single body covered in dried out wildflowers. 

"Bug must've got 'em." Clint said flatly, holding a bandana over his face against the lingering smell. "Wonder why the the survivor laid them out like that and put their welding masks on."

"It was the best they could do for a burial." Steve half whispers, remembering stretching sheets over his mother's body. Frank Delino's body. He considers what was required to seal yourself up inside a place like this alone, neat rows of your friends turning to soup in their coveralls never more than a few hundred yards away.

"I've got no good goddamn idea what they're sayin'. I just know it's Cantonese. Learned a few phrases for a business trip. But unless they're gonna point me to the john or make me a martini, it's not much help." Nick looked the stranger over with his good eye. 

"We can find a way to make them understand. We can't just leave them here. Especially if we _ take everything_!" Steve protested as someone passed him with an armload of canned goods. There had been quite a stockpile with fifty plus workers normally kept there.

"I'm not standin' here, in this motherfuckin' heat, drawing pictograms or some shit tryin' to explain we wanna be friends." Nick gestures to them, still waving the torch. 

Steve, nearly defeated, had left to root around an office and found the previous foreman's English to Cantonese dictionary. It had taken the entire time the others finished picking the place clean, and a begged-for extra twenty minutes, to convince the welder to shut off the torch and remove their face shield. 

"If I'd known that was under there, I would have been on your side," one of the men commented. Their new acquaintance turned out to be a not at all unattractive young woman. Steve flipped him off, but he couldn't deny feeling butterflies the first time she gave him a big, genuine smile a few weeks later. They took every scrap of welding equipment that they could find. There wasn't a single person in Claptrap that knew how to use them, and that had been Steve's ace in the hole in winning Nick over.

She'd been known as Win since she screamed the word, arms up in triumph, after brutally defeating a large group at poker in the town pub. They'd figured out her hand gestures easily enough for the game, after she had made it clear she had wanted to join and Steve talked them into humoring her, but Sam and Carol had been pissed when they lost their respective piles of loot. They certainly wouldn't invite him over that night. Steve could now guess how Win and the other workers had passed their few spare hours, locked inside their shared room. There were more than a few misunderstandings between Win and the residents, and at least one guy ended up with a broken eye socket when he got handsy; Steve could completely relate.

A few months before he had been fooling around with Sam and Carol regularly, at first after a card game when they had a bit too much to drink (it had just been flirting and a little kissing that first night) but sober after. He liked being kissed by them, touching them and - eventually, under his terms - being touched by them. He even liked watching them together (and they really liked being watched), the contrast of Sam's flawless dark skin against Carol's light, golden tan, Sam narrow in all the places she was round, his shoulders incredibly broad. 

He had absolutely no prior experience with women, and Carol was mercifully not shy at all about giving directions. He had no _positive_ experience with men. Sam was fun, friendly and patient, never talking to Steve like he was less than him or lacking in personal agency, never trying to be the macho guy that manhandled him. Both of them were so out of Steve's league on the attraction scale that he was constantly baffled they even noticed he existed. They were ex-military, in incredible shape, competitive to a fault. They had piloted the (supposedly top-secret) aircraft that carried Nick and his crew to this part of what had once been the United States and they lived in it at the base of the settlement. It was just another metal box with no way to refuel it.

He thought he had made it clear, without spelling it out, that penetration was off limits. They were all half-naked and making out when one of them (he was unsure who because they were wrapped together, hands everywhere) had seemed like they were trying to put a finger in his ass. He completely fucking lost it and reacted like a supermodel who had her photo taken without permission. It was weeks before he stopped avoiding them and, when things got comfortable again, he politely refused future offers to come over. To be fair what had happened could have been a misunderstanding or accident, but he felt guilty for not being more upfront about his boundaries. The fear it had engendered set him back significantly.

Nat for her part sensed a kindred spirit in Win the same as when she had met Steve. Underestimated for being petite and naturally "feminine" looking, not expected to do anything in this new world except be treated like a prize or a thing to be bought and sold, yet infinitely more useful than many of the mediocre, butch men who had managed to survive on only brute force. She supposed a lot of that had not changed so much from the old world. They bonded, spending hours pointing to things to teach each other words, sharing skills. Others made effort too, but it was Steve that Win gravitated to the most. 

People traded things for her welding skills, gifts she often shared with the slender blond, especially junk food, and she spent a good portion of time helping set up infrastructure for the community. They became partners in crime, dreaming up contraptions - if he could draw it, she could weld it - then scavenging parts for their creations. Language barrier not withstanding, they shared everything, even clothes, being a similar build. 

It had only seemed natural, despite their inability to exchange complete sentences, when she'd kissed him, post an intense game of Connect Four, about a year after their meeting. The kissing had turned heated and then she was taking off the oversized t-shirt she often wore around in her free time and he wasn't going to hyperventilate. He wasn't. 

It was all a blur of hands and lips and tongues until she, in nothing but her work boots, straddled him where he sat on the floor. She freed his cock from his pants and, after a momentary pause clearly intended to give him time to say no, sank down on him. The moment focused to crystal clarity, feeling the soft, tight slickness of her around him, the light brush of her hard nipples against his bare chest, her quivering breath on his forehead.

Looking him dead in the eyes without a hint of shyness, she moved on him slow, putting her hands on shoulders that were narrow but had a surprising amount of wiry muscle. After he got his bearings, he licked his thumb and found her clit with it (_thanks, Carol_). Then she smashed her mouth to his and they clutched at each other, moving together with intensity, both making high pitched sounds in their throats. She leaned back, perfect half-handful breasts catching the lamplight, a sound pulled out of her that could only mean one thing as he feels her get even more wet. He, Steven Grant Rogers, had just helped a person orgasm with his penis. He finished immediately, practically screaming. 

He had about five minutes to revel in the beauty of his experience, the first time he had ever been inside of anyone with that part of himself, and to think about what it might mean for them. Then she unceremoniously handed him his shirt and jacket, kissed him on the cheek and sent him into the night. She acted like nothing had changed the next day, politely rebuffing his attempt to kiss her. It had really hurt him, and his reaction to that was always pigheaded anger. 

After he hadn't spoken to her in a week, Nat had to sneak the English to Cantonese dictionary from his place. Win painstakingly combed through the words, alphabetized unhelpfully for her in English, to write him a letter. 

The body with the flowers at the factory had been her childhood sweetheart, who she married as a teenager. She cared for Steve. He was her best friend. She had enjoyed everything that had happened, would love for it to happen again and found him very attractive. There was no one else she was interested in. But she could not give him the romantic relationship that she now realized he wanted. Something inside her had nearly died when she had lost her husband and she could not go through that again. Because Steve would always be Steve, taking risks, getting involved. "One day, you will help the wrong person," she had ended the letter.


	4. Wow, what a hole.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Win and Steve find more than they bargained for at the yard.

Steve and Win spend a few hours sorting through boxes stored in the junkyard before they come across parts that will work in Clint's machine. They skim the newest assortment of items deemed potentially usable culled from the garbage and find two matching blue cotton tablecloths. Win holds one up to herself and parades around like a catwalk model, clearly mocking his nighties, sending Steve into fits of laughter. He keeps the fabric, planning to make a new nightshirt for each of them.

Then it's on to the real fun - sifting through one of the newest piles pulled from the dump onto the hillside. The people assigned to trash duty are taking their lunch out of the midday sun in the autoyard. Steve and Win are blissfully left alone, a rare occurrence in Claptrap for those with in demand skills. Trashpicking is an art of the imagination, asking not only what an item was intended for but what new purpose it could serve. It was the same way you needed to assess people in this world. A secretary could learn to be a sharpshooter; a grocer could learn to sell people instead of lettuce. Who or what they had been before was less important than who, or what, they could turn into. 

Steve finds a small vintage trash can, perfect as a pot for one of his many plants, Win a massive monkey wrench so rusty it leaves her gloves stained orange. She hangs it from a strap on her waistband. Both she and Steve have a hard time finding pants, or belts, small enough and today she has on suspenders - the old-fashioned kind that are not stretchy. The added bonus being how much crap she can fill her cargo pockets with and hang from her belt loops without her pants falling down. 

She snags a few tattered comic books - they're good English practice since she can infer context from the pictures. There's a half empty can of spray paint too; fumeheads will trade almost anything for it. She knows Steve frowns on enabling people's vices, but it's always good to have a savings account just in case.

They settle in on the other side of the hilltop, away from any piles, sharing potato chips as they gaze out into the tawny waste. Steve notices something glinting on the ground not far into the dunes. 

There was stuff piled next to that side of the hill when the first Claptrappers had found it - possibly an illegal dumping site for those who did not want to pay waste disposal fees back when things like that existed - and what appeared to be a long-abandoned worksite, possibly an intended extension of the facility's offerings that had gone bust. Supports tipped with crossbeams rose up like the ruin of a steel coliseum no more than 200 feet from the base of the hill. Less than thirty yards out the dunes were already encroaching. The wind carries the sand, covering everything for miles in up to several feet of it. Large pieces of metal and other random hunks stuck up out of it here and there but what Steve saw looked different - shinier.

"Sinkhole," Win responds when he points it out, the twinkle coming from the middle of a concave spot in the landscape. The very real danger they posed was one of the first things he impressed upon her. A lot of the bedrock was limestone in that area; it was not uncommon for sections of it to erode over time and collapse, sucking down whatever was on top of it. When that happened to be several feet of wastedust and garbage it formed something very similar to a quicksand pit and was virtually impossible to escape from. 

They finish their snack and wander cautiously down into the low dunes to check it out. Steve is surprised to see a gloved hand splayed out several feet down the slope of the depression. A gloved hand attached to a very shiny metallic arm. 

The pair look at each other quizzically, then back down into the pit. The limb extends out from under random trash and a large flap of garbage bag, the heavy industrial kind, sand sliding down on it all in a slow trickle. Win pulls a long piece of rebar from the build site and cautiously reaches in to move the debris. They're greeted by a head - mouth, nose, cheeks and jaw completely covered in a black mask that looks like a type of hard plastic, vented in the front. Large black goggles with dark lenses cover the eyes and part of the high forehead. It has hair that looks brunette despite the layer of yellowish dust. 

The human shaped object is buried up to the neck, only the left shoulder - also largely metal - and arm visible. 

"Dead?" Win asks, poking the person's forehead lightly with the rebar. 

"Maybe." Steve responds, putting his hand on her arm to still her.

"Hello?" Steve calls down into the hole. Nothing. No sound. No movement. 

Win shrugs, raps the rebar hard on the silver arm, making several loud clangs. It's solid and her efforts don't leave even a hint of a scratch. Nor do they rouse the _thing_ it belongs to. 

"Maybe androids exist now?" Steve muses. To Win's questioning expression he responds with the Cantonese word _jyutping_ \- a robot or synthetic person. She raises an eyebrow and repeats it back to him in a very interested tone.

"Pull it out?" She says in English, smiling. Steve can't help but hearing Clint, _heh heh, pull it out._

They return with a long spool of cable, one end formed into a sort of lasso which they manage to snag around the android/robot/very fancy mannequin's wrist. Whatever it is, it's heavy, especially with the constant pull of the sand and trash slowly being sucked into the empty space beneath it. They can barely budge it and when they're finally forced to let go, it sinks a bit lower into the pit

"Fuck." Steve grunts. "Fuck." Win agrees.

Steve looks around, plotting. There was an ancient scaffold up one side of the building frame - he climbs it and is ecstatic when the cable reaches the top, though with only a few feet to spare. The other end is still wrapped around their find. After a short chat, a few hand signals, and a lot of puzzled looks, Win is handing him up every piece of rebar small enough to lift. He lays them in a pile over the cable, eventually wrapping it around and tying it off to form a large bundle weighing a few hundred pounds.

"Get back," he calls down, gesturing her to the side. When she complies, he rolls the bundle off the top of the scaffold onto one of the crossbeams then unceremoniously shoves it off the other side. It falls the 30 or so feet with a massive thud that shakes the ground, yanking the thing on the other end of the cable out of the hole and into the low dunes.

"AHHHHHH!" Win screams in triumph, arms up, as Steve scrambles back down. He shoots her a cocky smile as they approach their prize. She let's out a dissatisfied huff as she sees the other arm is flesh. Just a person after all, probably a dead one judging from their complexion. Steve takes another step forward. 

"Wait!" Win grabs his arm. She's basically the only person allowed to do that. "No smell." 

She was right. A body dead long enough to start looking grayish should wreak, especially in this heat. 

"Hello?" Win tries tentatively. The thing (man?) on the ground doesn't move. 

"Sick?" Steve questions. Occasionally some poor soul who had found a good hideout during the spread of the plague would be pushed to leave their nest, not realizing basically everyone left was a carrier. They'd be dead in days usually. 

Steve and Win had been in the thick of caring for the dying; their status was clear. They approached cautiously, then rolled the man (?) onto his back. Yes, definitely a man, probably six feet tall and built like a rugby player - Steve had watched things like that as a teen for the hot guys, though he'd never admitted that to anyone. There was no obvious signs of injury and, curiosly, he didn't feel hot to the touch. Not cold either, but certainly unusually moderate to have been buried in sand under the midday sun for who knows how long. 

The man didn't so much as twitch, until Steve attempted to remove the mask.


	5. What's your favorite hobby? Magnets.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Win and Steve bite off more than they can chew.

The man was up like a shot, his metal hand around Steve's throat, hoisting him easily a foot off the ground like he was a bag of feathers. Steve's fingers are scrambling at the almost-literally iron grip, his feet landing hard blows into the man's body that would have knocked the wind out of most. The man didn't flinch. 

Win runs at him with a feral scream, the monkey wrench connecting with the man's head, cracking the left goggle lens, splitting the front of his skull open. He relinquishes his hold on Steve. The blonde falls with a thud on his ass in the sand, scrambles backwards immediately in a reverse crabwalk. 

Maybe it's not a man after all because it doesn't go down, the blood pouring out of it's forehead so purple it's almost black. Win smashes the wrench into the side of its face again, almost doubling it over and breaking one of the latches that holds the mask on. It swings to the side, revealing a grimacing mouth with multiple long, sharp teeth. 

Steve grabs her by the arm, half yelling, half choking. "Come on! Come on!" 

They run frantically around the side of the hill to the auto yard, chaining the gate shut as soon as they're inside. Two trashers, middle-aged Greta and the almost-elderly Samir, look up quizzically from their card game in time to see the thing spring over the gate and land gracefully on its feet. 

It pulls the now decimated goggles off, revealing a set of glowing white-blue eyes. Then it finishes removing the cracked mask, throws it at Steve's feet as if to say _you wanted it, you can have it._ Its face is perfect. Not a hint of what should have been fatal injuries.The blonde and the thing just stare at each other for a long minute before the crack of a rifle shot cuts the air.

"Get the fuck away from my kids!" Greta screams, pulling back the bolt to eject the empty casing. She had taught Steve how to shoot, how to can things and some very colorful new expressions. She had been two steps away from one of those survivalist nut bags before the collapse but he really couldn't make fun of her for that given their current circumstances. The first shot hit it squarely in what appeared to be a bulletproof vest. The hit should have at least knocked it back, even if the Kevlar stopped the bullet, but it barely moved. The next buries in its flesh shoulder, getting its body to twist ever so slightly to the right with the force of impact. Dark blood sprays out. 

The thing digs in the wound with it's metal fingers, pulls out the crushed slug. It holds it up to them dramatically and drops it to the ground as the wound seals itself shut. 

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph." Greta gasps. She fiddles with the ancient rifle, the bolt jammed. It approaches, _fast._ Win raises the wrench, prepared to fight to the bitter end, when it flies from her hands straight towards the sky. The thing doesn't even have time to look up, to see the wrench glued to the massive industrial magnet, Samir in the cab of the crane it's attached to, before it's pulled up as well by its metal arm and pinned there, kicking like a dying animal. 

They have just enough time to release their collectively held breath, to cheer, before a sharp piece of scrap half buried in the dirt shakes loose and rockets to the magnet. It passes directly through Win's upper arm, slicing muscle, tendons and her brachial artery. She falls to her knees with a gutteral wail, blood gushing between her fingers as she clutches at the wound. 

Samir shoots up, eyes wide, accidentally hitting the control panel. The thing falls back towards the Earth, pulling a handgun from a thigh holster before it even lands, firing at the old man. Samir dives out, takes cover behind a crushed SUV as the shots shatter the glass of the cab. 

It whirls on Steve, already on his knees frantically trying to tie one of the scavenged tablecloths around Win's arm as she goes pale. 

"We were only trying to help you, you fucking asshole!" Steve screams at the thing stalking towards him as Win starts to sag. He lays her out on the ground, slaps her face in a futile attempt to keep her awake. "Win! WIN!!" 

The thing watches him for a minute, holsters it's weapon. Greta runs at it, swinging the rifle like a club. It catches the butt of the gun, tears it from her grasp, throws it twenty yards effortlessly. It stares her down, eyes like a pair of LED headlights in the shadows of the scrap car piles, freezing her to the spot. 

It squats down across from Steve, reaches for the blood soaked cloth. 

"Don't fucking touch her!" Steve pulls back to take a swing at the thing, panic blurring out his thoughts. It puts a hand in the center of Steve's chest and shoves. He slides several feet straight back in the dirt, the motion comical under other circumstances. It pulls the makeshift dressing from her arm, puts it's flesh hand partially in it's mouth and bites down hard. 

It squeezes it's flesh hand with it's metal one over Win's arm, leaking dark blood into her wound. It's hand heals seconds later, the gash in her bicep immediately after. Steve and Greta stare, mouths open, dumbfounded. It looks over at Steve.

"Do you have medical supplies in your community?" The voice is a bit raspy, not quite as deep as Steve's, but even, eerily soft. Like someone calmly querying about a book in the library. 

"It's just us," Greta answers quickly. 

The thing's eyes don't leave Steve's. "It is unlikely two people so small and two more so old accomplished this operation." It is not unkind, just matter of fact. 

"I'll show you too old, fuckhole!" Greta starts, pulling a hunting knife. Steve grabs her pantleg, urges her to move behind him. 

"She will require treatment for the blood loss. Do you have access?" It's voice never waivers and it barely blinks. 

"Our...our community isn't close," Steve stammers. 

"Shut up, boy!" Greta growls, grabbing his shoulder from behind.

"Thirty miles due Northwest? The junktown on the hill?" It asks blandly. 

"Y-yes," Steve replies. Greta goes silent with shock. It's gaze - decidedly less electric, irises faded to a pale turquoise - trains up to her, then back to Steve.

It stands, walks to the fence, jumps it effortlessly. 

"What the fuck is that thing?" Greta half whispers, Samir finally coming to join them.

The thing hops back over the gate with a large black duffel, both it and the bag equally covered in sand. It probably went back into the hole for it, Steve half-thinks, used the anchored cable to climb back out. It was gone only minutes - it must be able to move incredibly fast and pursued them leisurely before. It kneels down next to Win, opens the bag, begins laying out medical supplies. 

"What is that?" Steve asks when it takes out an IV bag filled with clear fluid. 

"Vitamins. Sugars. Electrolytes. Medication. It is used to counteract the effects of blood loss," it says, opening a sterile package to take out a needle. 

"What if he's lying?" Greta's nails dig into Steve. 

"Why would he heal her just to poison her?" Steve responds, not taking his eyes from the thing as it disinfects Win's arm and places the needle, hooks up the IV bag it's already holding aloft. 

"What if it'll make her like him?" The old woman breathes. 

Steve swears it chuckles softly at that as it hands her the IV bag.

"I can assist you in returning her to your community," it offers to Steve. 

"It tried to shoot me!" Samir counters, back in his hiding spot. 

"Warning shots. I do not miss," it responds, cleaning up its supplies. 

"Why would it help us?" Greta queries.

"I was in the pit for days," it says, rooting around in the bag for something else, "before he rescued me. The harder I attempted to extricate myself, the farther it pulled me in." 

_A familiar feeling,_ Steve thinks.

Steve stands, turns to Greta. "I can't hold her on the 'bile and drive and I'd be moving slow with her on a skiff. We'd be sitting ducks for hostiles. It can help keep her safe." 

It takes out a mask and goggles, identical to the others but new. "Please do not call me _it_," the thing - the man - says, voice still placid, before covering his face.


	6. Can I keep him, dad?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick isn't unfamiliar with Steve's new acquaintance.

"Can it _stay_? **It's not a fucking puppy, Steve!!!"** Nick screams. 

Nick and Phil are pointing some serious firepower at Steve's new companion, not letting them through the gate into Claptrap; a few others point rifles and bow and arrows at them from the wall above. The man has Win in his arms.

"He defended us on the way back! Took out at least twelve guys." Steve insists, trying valiantly but uselessly to shield the much larger man and Win with his body.

The marauders had ambushed them, had them pinned down for a while under heavy fire that severely damaged the 'bile. These weren't your typical lowlifes - they were armed to the teeth, one of them with a flamethrower, and there had been so many. Marauders usually only traveled in large bands where there were far more supplies and population. Claptrap got the occasional unwelcome guest in it's surrounding area but they usually showed up in very small numbers and were disorganized. Many of them were marked with white paint, large "X" symbols painted on the chests of their body armor and jackets.

The man was content to lay in cover and pick the others off with his sidearm, but then Steve was shot - the bullet passing all the way through his side. It had been clear earlier in the lines of the man's body when the fire passed dangerously near to them that it was a real threat and he could have easily abandoned them, Win half-conscious and Steve bleeding out in the sand. But he had not, charging into the fight knife in hand when his gun was empty.

The way his body moved put even Nat's physical prowess to shame - his metal fist and feet flying in quick, coordinated movements as his flesh hand slashed and stabbed with the blade. He could jump farther than seemed possible for even a professional athlete, launching himself on one of the men from quite far away. At one point he had grabbed someone by the front of their flak vest, whipped them out into the distance, their yell growing steadily quieter as their body flew before going silent when they landed with a sickening thud. _How strong would you need to be to do that?_

Steve had managed a few shots from cover - he had his own rifle on the 'bile - wounding two of their assailants and allowing the man to finish them. Once his ally was clear he landed one to the flamethrower's accelerant tank, making it go off like a small bomb, taking out it's owner and severely wounding three others. He couldn't see most of what happened after that from behind the wreckage of the 'bile, his head swimming from the explosion, but he swore when the man leapt onto another assailant he had latched his teeth on to their neck. Above the ringing in his ears he hears the men's frantic screams, some of them cut off in wet, choked noises.

When the yelling stopped, the man returned, covered in blood. He healed Steve, cleaned himself up with a rag, then checked the smaller man over for other injuries, running flesh and metal fingers carefully over the blonde's scalp, his ribs, the blonde too disoriented to do much but lay there. After the man fixed his mask back in place, he gently picked Steve up and put him on the skiff. He did the same to Win, then quickly looted the bodies, adding it to the makeshift sled, and headed towards the community without a word.

"Do you know what that fuckin' thing is? Go ahead, ask it." Nick demands. 

"I, personally, would love to hear what it has to say," Phil responds, inappropriately giddy. He adds a mouthed "sorry" at Steve. 

"I don't care what he is. He saved our lives and he can help keep Claptrap safe. We both know more people will always show up. Some of those people don't want to be friends. Now get the hell out of our way so we can get Win to the doctor." Steve's eyes flash with anger.

"Is that what you think this thing is? _Your friend_? _That_ is a **Winter Soldier**. Durin' the Cold War, our military decided they needed shock troops for what came after the bombs fell, able to be the fist of whatever was left of the government during the nuclear winter. That thing, walking around, is a corpse they brought back to something like life, circa 1983." Nick edges closer.

Steve backs up, arms wide, herding the man behind him farther away. "That's ridiculous. Even if that were possible, he'd be an old man." 

"They kept them in cryofreeze off and on. They were genetically modified, capable of surviving in fallout. But, shocker, there were side effects to playing God." Nick has never looked this crazy, not even when he accidentally caught Steve playing with his eye patch that one time. 

Steve swallows hard, sets his face to something stony. "So you were involved with the program? A little hypocritical to blame him for what your people did to him." Steve was vaguely aware that Nick had been in some pretty high-level government stuff, but not the specifics. He'd assumed his so-called business trips were probably espionage missions, but what he was talking about was way higher level than that.

"I was sent in to see what they were capable of, if their handlers' mind control was really workin'. Because I saw the early tapes - they were fuckin' savages, rippin' apart anyone who got too close. I didn't buy that Pavlovs dogs were gonna salivate at the bell. I cut my forehead on purpose, just wanted to show the brass how the things would react. One nearly ate the eye right outta my head." Nick gestures at the patch, the scar surrounding it. 

"If that's true, why didn't he go nuts when I was bleeding?" Steve counters, gesturing at his stained jumpsuit.

"The crackpots figured out a foolproof way to control them. Microchips in the brain. Because the bombs never fell, did they? And they needed to justify spending all that money on their little science project somehow. They used these things for missions to take whatever they wanted, to kill whoever they wanted. If it's here now, _it's because someone told it to be_," Nick practically spits.

"I am no one's puppet," the man - the Soldier - finally speaks, as soft as ever behind his mask. "I am only here because Steve asked me to be." 

"_And why do you give a **shit** what Steve asks?_" Fury questions, tone incredulous. 

"He pulled me from a sinkhole in the waste. If I had sank there, I do not know how long it would have taken me to starve to death. My neural network is non-operational. _I_ am in control of my actions." The Soldier sounds perfectly calm, almost soothing. 

Phil leans over to Fury, softly counters that the Soldier would be a great help if it was on their side. 

"Fine, fine! But it's your head if he fucks up, Steve. You watch him every minute you're awake. You can keep him in your old cage at night," Nick says, not without relish, referencing one of the cells at the drunk tank. 

Steve feels the Soldier tense behind him. "He's my guest, not my prisoner. He'll stay _with me_." 

Nick stares at him for a long time, and for a minute Steve thinks he has pushed his luck too far, that Nick is about to give the order for them to blow the Soldier's head off. Maybe his and Win's too and bury them all in the sand. He now firmly believes that is the type of man that Fury was before all this started. The older man just sighs. 

"They're still anatomically correct, you know, and it all works. Better watch your ass." Nick snarks. 

Steve just scowls as Nick and his entourage leave, cut to the quick. It wasn't intended as homophobic. Nick knows that Steve likes men as well as women and that's not something he would mock him for. Nick has a pretty good idea of the excruciating details of Steve's past. This is his not-so-subtle way of saying that if anything happens to him, he's asking for it. 

The Soldier says nothing as they take Win to what acts as an infirmary, as Steve talks to the doctor, then leads him to his home several hours later once he's sure she's safe. The taller man stands silently in a corner as his host explains some things about the community, talking more out of nerves than anything. Steve pulls out an old sleeping bag that served as his bed when he'd been a newbie to the town, a flat old pillow and a few extra blankets (one of them real and not made of scraps). He lays it out on the floor for the man, careful not to put him too close to his own bed but also not completely on the other side of the room like a dog made to sleep in the corner. "It can get cold at night sometimes. Almost no plants or clouds from the drought and no nearby bodies of water, so it gets sweltering hot during the day but the land doesn't hold any of it in at night." _Nice small talk, Climatologist Rogers,_ he chastises himself.

Steve finally sits down on the edge of the bed, lets out a long sigh and looks up warily at his houseguest who is - unsurprising now that the mask and goggles are off - staring right back at him. If this were some sort of a trick, he could not imagine what purpose it would serve. Certainly if someone did control the Soldier, there were far more important things that they could be doing with him than spying on some nobody in a junktown. If he meant what he had said, that he was only here because of Steve, that posed a whole other set of questions. It was true as the man dragged the skiff through the sand that Steve, still high on adrenaline from their fight, had suggested that he take up residence in Claptrap, become their own private defender. 

He knew that _something_ had been done to the man and read enough sci-fi to guess it was probably an experiment. It seemed too ridiculous to think he was an alien or a werewolf. Those sharp teeth weren't just for show though, judging from the mutilated corpses he had seen. There had been a time, even after the bug had collapsed civilization and people had started to turn into their more primal selves, that Steve was loathe to think of anyone being killed and would avoid doing so at all costs. That had ended after he had met Brock. He realized that sometimes the most just thing was to kill certain people so that the rest of the world did not have to suffer them.

Steve shook that thought from his head, focusing back on the Soldier, noticing again the odd cast to his skin. Steve was an artist only as a hobby, never professionally trained, but he did know that purple and yellow are complementary colors, cancelling each other out to something close to gray. He assumed that the purplish color of his blood, moving beneath the surface, probably affected the way his skin appeared. It was not an off putting, rotten shade. It reminded him of fresh concrete and ceramics and extremely fancy candles he'd seen in a boutique once labeled "Earl Gray." If he pretended it was all just really well done FX makeup he could see that the man had classic heartthrob features - a pouty mouth, square jaw, sad eyes, high cheekbones and thick, slightly wavy shoulder length hair that hung over most of his brows.

He hadn't really considered the Soldier's attractiveness or lack thereof until about two seconds ago though. In truth, Steve was just a sucker for fairness, loathe to pass judgement on others as had been done to him his entire life. He should look at this person before him and see a monster (even if it was a kind of hot one), but instead he felt pity, maybe empathy and a sense of obligation after all the man had done for him and his friend. There was something wounded in the bigger man's gaze, rudderless in his actions. He had said he was not a puppet, but perhaps he was a marionette with it's strings cut, no longer under others' control but with no self-direction.

There was also a more practical matter he hadn't considered before. He never slept in his clothes anymore, not wanting to bring the filth of the day - literally or figuratively - into his bed. Putting his nightshirt on was his way of saying to himself that he was sticking around, that he wouldn't need to run in the middle of the night. Steve stood, taking one off a hook. "Do you mind, ummm, waiting outside...while I change?" He was breaking Nick's rules already, letting him out of his sight, but he couldn't feel so exposed right now. 

The Soldier furrowed his brow ever so slightly, but complied. After he'd stripped, washed up and changed quickly, Steve alerted his guest he was finished. He offered the bigger man something to change into as well. He was rewarded with silence. 

After they stared at each other for a few long moments, the Soldier said very softly, "I believe your friend implied I am a rapist."

Steve doesn't know how to respond, just opens his mouth and closes it again. He's more than a little shocked that the Soldier had caught on. Perhaps it had been the way Steve had cringed, gone silent and inside himself after what Nick had said, intentionally keeping as much distance as he could from the other man. Maybe asking him to _leave the building_ had something to do with it.

"I am not," the Soldier says with simple finality and then takes to his bedroll, laying on top fully clothed, leaving the blankets untouched and folded up next to him. When Steve finally falls asleep hours later, his nightmares are of hands on him much hotter than the Soldier's and much less gentle.


	7. Twenty Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns more than he bargained for from his guest.

To say Claptrap was a close-knit community would be the understatement of the century. A typical "small town" had at least a thousand citizens minimum. Sometimes even in a big city it could feel like you knew everyone with the same hobbies. The junktown had less than 250 residents, a lot of them practically living on top of each other with only a few feet between dwellings.

Word about the argument at the gate travelled quickly. Clint had been on a hunting expedition when they had arrived the previous evening, had game to clean and a wife to visit when he got home in the wee hours this morning, but he was still knocking on Steve's door not long after sun up. He already smelled like a gin mill. 

"So what is this I hear that you brought some kind of mutant flesheater out of the desert?" Clint pushes the door the rest of the way open, and just glides past Steve without an invite. Having been recently choked, shot, hit with a concussion wave from an explosion, and having sparse sleep riddled with past horrors, he decides to himself that suffering Clint would be the worst pain he'd feel this week.

Clint pulls out a chair, slow and loud, scraping the chrome legs across the metal floor. He plops down in it and hoists his feet up on the table, crossing his filthy boots on the formica.

"I heard that it's seven feet tall, has teeth like a piranha and you saw it chew the face from a man's skull!" Clint looks and sounds entirely too excited about the prospect. 

"I do not eat flesh," comes a soft voice from the other side of the table. The Soldier, who had still been laying on his bed roll, sat up and fixed Clint with a stare that glowed neon in the dull morning light.

"HOLY SHITBALLS!" Clint blurts out as he tumbles over backwards. Steve can't help but smirk and just stands there sleepily, arms crossed over his chest, not even making an attempt to ask if he is okay.

Clint is up like a shot, backing towards the doorway.

"What the actual fuck, Stevie? You let it sleep in here with you?! _With your sexy nightie on and everything?!?!"_ His voice had gone high and hysterical. 

"For the hundredth time, don't call me Stevie. And don't call him _it_. He doesn't like that." Steve glares, hands balling up. 

The Soldier stands, never taking his eyes from Clint, slowly circling the table to move between him and Steve. The archer's hands tremble for his bow, every hair on his body on end. Everything about its - no, his - body language says he is on the defensive.

"Woah, big fella. It's cool. Steve, tell him it's cool." Clint holds his hands up in a placating gesture. Steve looks to the man, who must have removed his vest and boots at some point during the night. He's wearing neither shirt nor socks. Steve can't help but notice his back is...sculpted, to say the least. Fuck, he really is tired. 

"It's okay. This is my...My friend's husband, Clint." The blonde steps forward next to his guest, tries to relax his posture, sound friendly. He realizes everything about the way he was standing and speaking said that he did not want Clint here, which was probably giving his houseguest the wrong idea.

"Husband. That is a male spouse?" The Soldier queries. Steve gives him a "yep" back.

"Marauder do that to you?" Clint gestures at the smaller man's throat, which now sports an obvious hand print, bruised nearly black. Steve touches it, winces.

"I strangled him briefly," the Soldier says matter-of-factly, his eyes moving to the marks. Steve thinks there is something like regret reflected in them, but maybe that's wishful thinking.

"He thought we were attacking him. It was a misunderstanding," Steve clarifies quickly.

"You're both a few fries short of a Happy Meal. Steve does love a project though. Whatuh… What are you?" Clint sounds genuinely curious.

"I am Winter Soldier number 23," the taller man responds. 

"I've heard some of the government goons talk about Winter Soldiers before, but I thought they were just apocalypse fairytales." His eyes move to Steve then back to the Soldier. "Nice to meet you, Fangs."

"Please do not call me that," the Soldier says, as calm and even as ever. He never lets himself think of them as fangs. Snakes have fangs. _Monsters_ have fangs. People have teeth.

"So, wadda you go by?" Clint queries. 

The Soldier looks at Steve.

"What name do you want us to call you?" the smaller man explains, looking back up at him. This is the first time they've stood side-by-side. The Soldier is head and shoulders (and a bit more if Steve's honest) above him, even with both of them barefoot.

"Soldier is acceptable." The glow of his eyes fades (he sees them reflected in Steve's and makes an effort to calm himself, to pull his shoulders slightly more downward). _He cannot quite bring his fists to unclench._

"Damn, you don't look like a fish, but you definitely got some chompers on you." Clint pulls his lip backs, shows his teeth.

"Chalm-purse?" the Soldier questions. 

"Teeth," Steve explains.

"Yes. I have teeth. People have teeth," the Soldier replies. This earns him a look from the others. What had he said wrong?

"Oooookay. You use those to drink blood or somethin'?" Clint muses, smirking.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Don't be an asshole."

"Yes," the Soldier states simply, overlapping with the smaller man's statement. He realizes this was the incorrect response when Steve goes silent, head whipping in his direction, his eyes just as wide as the other man's.

_Well that certainly explains all the neck biting,_ Steve thinks. And here he'd hoped the _chompers_ and the savaging done with them were just from...tiger DNA or something.

"You do not need to be concerned," the Soldier continues to Clint. "You have imbibed a large quantity of alcohol. I would not drink you unless I was desperate."

Clint's jaw drops. He points at the Soldier, swivels his arm to point over at Steve, then back again, his mouth working open and closed like he's gasping. _Who's the fish now,_ Steve's inner voice says clearly through the buzz of his whirring thoughts.

The blonde springs forward, forces out a laugh as he takes a strong hold on Clint's elbow and leads him to the door. "He's just fucking with you." Steve makes a face that says _you're so dumb, Clint,_ a face he's made thousands of times by now.

"So he doesn't…?" Clint still sounds a bit like a frightened child. 

"Of course not. Don't be silly." The smaller man puts on his best _you're so ridiculous_ smile. "Tell Nat I said hi! We'll come visit soon." _What's this **we** shit, Rogers?_ He gives a little wave and then quickly shuts the door, spinning around to press his back to it and stare down his visitor.

"I think we need to have a talk," Steve rasps, his throat suddenly very dry. Swallowing hurts, on the outside at least.

The Soldier says nothing, now certain he has crossed some invisible line he was not aware existed. His eyes trail back down to the shape of his fingers on Steve's neck.

"You weren't actually joking, were you?" The blonde's voice goes low, almost a whisper. "You can't tell anyone, that you actually drink blood." _What the hell, Steve? Is this really not a deal-breaker for you?_

"I will not hurt you. I am in control of my need." It is not a lie, but it is not the whole truth. The brunette steps back, farther from Steve's space. 

"I believe you, but it'll still scare the others. Do you... How often do you need to do that?" Steve tries to sound like this is any normal conversation as he takes an amicable step forward. His voice only shakes on the last word. 

"I drank a large quantity in the altercation yesterday. I should not need more for some time." He remembers how good and full and strong he had felt after - the combined heat of the men pooling in his belly - and how difficult it had been to resist running his tongue over his lips and teeth in front of his new acquaintance.

Steve flashes back to just after the fight, when the Soldier reappeared, blood - red, not purple - coating the lower half of his face, running down the flack vest. He sees it and the boots, now spotless, sitting in a corner on a threadbare towel, no doubt placed there to dry. _Well, he's very fastidious and considerate for a savage bloodsucker._

"I do not kill those who do not deserve it," the Soldier adds. It surprises him a bit, offering this information without being queried. He is unsure why he feels the need to express this to the smaller man.

Steve, ever the champion of justice, gets his hackles up a bit at that statement, takes another step forward. "And who do you think _deserves_ it?"

"People who would hurt others only for the enjoyment of doing so." The brunette receeds, his back now literally to the wall. Perhaps he made a mistake coming here, becoming entangled with this person. He is so very tired of being interrogated. 

"Well, there's no one like that here. What will you do when you need to…?" The blonde goes quiet, noticing how the man has retreated. _ Never corner an animal._ It's Brock's voice this time. Steve lightly shudders, immediately hopes the man doesn't notice, doesn't think it's directed at him.

"There will always be someone outside the walls." The Soldier had been loitering in the vicinity of Claptrap for months, and there was no shortage of those with ill intent crawling the area, eager to take advantage of the burgeoning settlement.

"But if there's not?" Steve is blissfully unaware of how many people increasingly dot the sands, of how often the man before him has prevented the horrors of the outside world from showing up at his front door.

"I can feed without killing." 

_And didn't that make a thousand new questions pop up in Steve's mind._

"You can't do that here. They'd chase us out with torches and pitchforks." 

"I can subsist on animals. There are still many small things in and around the wastes." _They do not taste very good, but at least they are warm. Alive,_ he wants to say but does not.

"I thought Fury was just exaggerating about all this, being dramatic because he doesn't want to have to look you in the face every day after what he was a part of." In all the time Steve had known Nick, he had never heard him apologize to anyone. Dealing with his failings was not his strong suit.

"I will wear the mask and goggles. He will not have to see my face," the soldier responds matter of factly.

"That's not…" Steve sighs, sitting down at the table. This was going to get very frustrating. "Do you take everything so literally?"

"I only required as much speech as was needed for my missions. Euphemisms and slang are often unfamiliar." The Soldier peels himself from the wall, takes another look at the bruises he had left on his new...companion? There is something that sits strangely about that word. He moves towards his supply bag. 

"Do you remember anything, from before you were...dead?" Steve barely breathes the last word, eyeing several large, circular marks on his guest's chest and upper abdomen as the man approaches him, items in hand. They look like healed-over gunshot wounds, except they're in a spot no normal person could survive.

_That's how he died,_ a little voice says in the smaller man's head. 

"I have short flashes. I am unsure if they are memories or random firing of my synapses due to the damaged neural net." He lays out medical supplies, fingers flitting up to the scars after he notices Steve's gaze. 

"That's the thing they used to control you?" Steve averts his eyes (_It's rude to stare,_ he hears his mother say), looking over the cotton pad, disinfectant and small syringe still in sterile packaging on the tabletop. His own hands fidget in his lap. Fuck, there it is again, that weird feeling of pity and empathy mixed together when he thinks about what was probably done to this...person. This person who is opening a needle pack, who now appears about to stab himself.

"It is interconnected microcircuitry providing stimulation to certain parts of the brain, while inhibiting others from functioning normally. I was dormant until a proper verbal sequence was given, then I would activate and comply," the Soldier explains calmly, putting the needle easily into his own vein just below the inside of his elbow. The blood is not as dark today. More noticeably purple. Steve wonders if this is because he had fed so recently. The puncture disappears virtually as soon as the needle is out of his arm.

"What happened to it?" Steve's eyes lock on the syringe and don't leave it as the other man places it on top of its empty plastic wrapper on the table. The Soldier picks up the cotton pad, adds disinfectant.

"The facility where I was housed was damaged by an explosion. When I awakened, metal and glass were embedded in my skull. Please tip your head back." 

Steve just stares up at the Soldier, towering over him. "I will heal the contusions," the Soldier reassures him. The smaller man slowly complies, the wet pad cool against his neck as the brunette gently wipes his skin. 

"So your... brain healed, but some of the circuits were destroyed?" He swallows hard despite himself. 

"Correct." The smaller man's breath is warm on his forehead, the skin under his fingertips the same, the soft flicker of his pulse impossible not to notice.

"You're _sure_ it can't still work?" Steve queries as his guest stands, drops the pad, picks up the syringe.

"Those who broke into the facility attempted to command me. I did not comply." The Soldier's eyes flare for the briefest moment before he leans back down. "There will be a small amount of pain. You should not move."

After so many stints in the hospital, so many trips to the doctor as a boy, Steve is almost immune to the sting of a needle. However he definitely notices the soft, warm grip of the Soldier's flesh hand as it slides around the back of his neck just below his skull, steadying him. His usual urge to bark out "don't touch me" is a lot more muted than usual. This is just too fucking surreal, after all. 

"Do you remember things that happened, while it was still working?" _You don't want to know about that stuff, Steve. Why are you asking?_

"I remember the majority." The younger man's neck is so warm under his palm and the pads of his fingers, the hair at his nape silky as it brushes the side of his hand.

The Soldier is finished with his injections. He stands and watches the bruises fade to purple then yellow, shrinking all the while before they fully disappear, watches the smaller man's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows hard. His eyes slowly move up, roving over lips that are a bit fuller and wider than his own, dark pink in color, parted enough to show a hint of straight, white teeth. They continue over a strong nose, cheeks a bit flat in the front below pronounced cheekbones, to meet Steve's. He takes note not for the first time of their color, a deep blue, of the shape of Steve's brows above them, a bit dark compared to his sand colored hair, of his unusually long lashes. They flutter shut slowly, reopen fast, the younger man's breath coming more quickly.

The Soldier questions if the attention of his gaze is inappropriate and turns it away.

"What were you doing by the dump?" The ten-thousand dollar question.

"Watching the people there."

"To hurt them?" Steve questions, trying to keep his tone from being accusatory, fingering his now pain-free throat. 

"If you believe I am a danger, why did you bring me here?" This answer surprises the Soldier even as it comes out of him. He did not like the way Steve had looked at him a moment before, something like fear on his features. He had done nothing to threaten the other man or his community.

"You already knew about this place and you could jump the gate, or probably just tear it off the hinges, whenever you wanted. I figure it's better we're friends than enemies... Besides, yesterday, everything was so crazy, and I was just grateful that you saved our lives. I wasn't thinking about much beyond the fact that you're alone and don't seem to have any place else to go." _I'm Steve, a big, fucking naive softy. Did the bad government men make you into an unstoppable killing machine? Oh, you drink blood? Come with me, sleep in my house. Touch my neck._

"I had seen the marauders from a distance. I was unsure if they had taken the outpost. I became trapped in the sand while scouting the area." Outside he would just throw the trash anywhere. He is unsure what to do with it here, what would be considered appropriate, and just stands there with it held up awkwardly in his hand.

"That's why you insisted on bringing us back here? You knew that they were possibly nearby?" Steve stands, steps towards him.

"Yes." The Soldier looks down as Steve's fingers tentatively brush his metal ones, slowly opens his hand to allow retrieval of the used cotton pad and syringe.

Steve tosses the pad in his tiny garbage can (there's very little to throw out in this world), but thinks better of junking the syringe. There's not an endless supply of them, after all. He pauses for a moment before his next question, unpleasant reality dawning on him. "And we made good bait? To lure out your dinner?" 

"Yes. Also I did not wish for you and the woman to be used and killed. It is fortunate they did not intercept you previously." There's the faintest hint of something underscoring "used." So he understands _that_ euphemism.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Steve half-jokes, fighting back a shiver. The only thing worse than having that happen to himself would be seeing it happen to one of his friends. He pours a tiny portion of hydrogen peroxide into a very slender, short glass tube with a flat bottom and puts the syringe - disassembled into its three components - inside of it to sterilize. It was probably a vase for a single rosebud; the irony of using something so symbolic of romance to house a sharp object is not lost on Steve. 

"You are very clever and brave, but very small," the Soldier says, matter of factly.

"Thanks, I think." Steve cocks an eyebrow at the sort-of compliment. 

He doesn't ask the Soldier to step outside when he changes into his day clothes, just has him turn around and face the wall.


	8. Farm livin' ain't the life for me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier and Steve both learn the other has unexpected skills.

Steve fully expected the Soldier to be the center of everyone's attention, especially that first morning. He braced himself for the looks, questions, maybe even threats. The Soldier appeared disconnected from a lot of typical human experience, but he seemed to understand when Steve explained that people could be hostile to him. 

They agreed if anyone asked about his appearance they would say he had been a soldier who lost his arm in the war (the country was fighting five by the end). He still wanted to serve his country and signed up for a medical experiment to test a (sadly failed) vaccine and be given a very fancy new type of prosthetic. Under no circumstances was he to discuss being a military weapon, murdering anyone, drinking blood or using his own to heal people.

The Soldier even relinquished his mask, goggles, pistol (now empty anyway) and flak vest after a lot of cajoling. Steve reasoned he would not need them inside the community, and walking around looking like a shock trooper in a relatively peaceful settlement was the fastest way to make people uncomfortable. The Soldier thought his skin, eyes and teeth would do that on their own, regardless of false explanations, but he allowed his host to call the shots. Steve gave him his largest t-shirt - it was quite oversized on him but fit his guest like a second skin. 

The Soldier is certain he must look unusual in the attire because the smaller man keeps glancing at him with a strange - but not unkind - expression. It felt foreign to have something so soft against his skin, to not feel the familiar rub of the vest or mask, the weight of the weapon, to be looked at with anything other than calculation, disgust or horror.

They go to check on Win first at the medical center, stares and whispers coming from some of the people they pass, even most of the ones who still greet Steve. It had been no easy task the night before explaining to the doctor why Win needed a transfusion when she had no visible injuries. There was no lie good enough, so Steve asked the Soldier to demonstrate, putting a few drops of his blood into a cut made on the smaller man's hand with a scalpel. The doctor had gone a little pale and sat down as their wounds both closed.

"You're going to put me out of a job," was all he had said. 

Steve had begged the doctor, a bumbling curly haired man named Bruce Banner, to keep his knowledge about the Soldier's healing ability to himself. He eyes them furtively the next morning, pushes his glasses up by the bridge with a single finger, asks what it would take in trade to get more of the Soldier's blood. One of the head gardeners has lung cancer, as best as he can tell quite advanced and spread into some of her other organs. He had been a top oncology researcher, working on experimental radiation treatments before the fall, but he had basically nothing to treat her with here.

The Soldier calmly explains that giving an amount large enough to heal such a widespread illness would overload her neurological system, at best making her braindead and at worst killing her. It is not a lie but moreso there is the lingering concern that this man will try to study him, try to reverse-engineer what he is for his own ends, or to find a way to subdue him. The equipment they have is sparse, but there could be some secret location in the community or even outside of it. He trusts doctors least of all but this one promises to keep his secret, not-so-subtly hinting that he expects their guest to come through if someone has a serious injury in the future.

Win looks a bit under the weather, but otherwise no worse for wear, sat up on her cot putting her boots back on. She is less than pleased to see the Soldier - Steve can't make out most of what she says in her language, but he knows the incredulous tone. _Steve, you're a well-intentioned idiot._ He pulls the dictionary from his back pocket. This will require some obscure vocabulary. Where to begin? 

The Soldier says something to her in perfect Cantonese. Win's mouth snaps shut so hard her teeth clack. She stares at him, then Steve, then the bigger man again for a long moment, mouth opening and closing a few times before she responds cautiously. He answers. They talk for several minutes before tears begin to spill down her cheeks. 

"Hey, what are you saying to her?" Steve questions protectively.

Win picks up some of his words, notices his voice and face are filled with concern. She takes Steve's hand, smiling, says something to the Soldier. 

"She asked me to tell you this is the first actual conversation she has had in three years," the brunette informs him. "She forgives you for being stupid enough to bring me here. She also says in this shirt I am...beef. I do not understand, but she is certain you will."

Win enlists the Soldier as her translator, takes him and Steve to visit everyone she wants or needs to talk to. They have to see Clint first though, confirm that he's kept his fat trap shut. He swears that he has, says that he knows no good can come of repeating what the Soldier had told him. He needs his arrows and he's not pissing off the people who make sure he has them. 

"I know the blood thing was a joke anyway. You really got me there, Jumbo." Clint lightly punches the Soldier's arm. The taller man's expression changes in an almost - but not quite to Steve - imperceptible way that the blonde thinks of as his "assessing a possible threat" face. He's used to needing to notice the most minute changes in someone's look, to prepare for the consequences of their mood change. 

"That's a friendly gesture," Steve tells him quickly. After a moment, the Soldier does the same in kind to Clint, with his metal fist. The archer winces, making Win and Steve chuckle.

Everywhere they go the Claptrappers eye the visitor - with distrust, fear, curiosity, morbid interest - but are often so taken with Win's discovery that he becomes a secondary concern. She and Steve are trusted and well-liked by most of the community. The other citizens are not as slow to accept the explanation for his new friend's appearance as he had feared (and Steve was calling him "friend," to put people further at ease). Claptrappers heard all kinds of reports of what happened in and beyond the wasteland; at this point something as simple as a medical experiment seems perfectly believable compared to the far-fetched tales being tossed around. The newest one, carried in by a group that had passed through a week before, was about a mutated monster with a terribly scarred up face who was roaming the land in search of a treasure chest.

Win has a massive list of work set up by mid-afternoon, enough to keep her busy (and rich in traded goods) for months. She is finally able to suss out technical details of jobs that were difficult to discuss with just hand signals and the dictionary. She and Steve walk their rounds, maintenance machinery, make a few simple repairs. They also stop to fix a few small leaks in the irrigation system. It's during this last task that Steve first learns the Soldier can eat actual food - one of the workers offers them fresh strawberries and he slowly munches a handful while looking around, intrigued by the scale of the production. Steve was surprised when the Soldier expressed guarded interest and gave him a (he hoped not too boring) agro lesson.

They had tried to grow produce in the open but the thin, dry soil supported very little. They had a bit more luck with container gardens, using bagged potting soil from a small country store that was still half standing about twelve miles away, but it was so limited in quantity. When Wanda and Simon arrived, college professors with pertinent backgrounds, they had formulated fertilizer from human waste to improve the soil. The locals were horrified, but it worked. The sterilization method was not completely safe, so they never used it on things that would be eaten raw or where the edible portion grew directly in the ground.

The community eventually scavenged industrial fertilizer and raw ingredients to amend the soil, such as nitrogen. Very few people were settling after the collapse and agricultural implements were often left untouched. There was plenty of rotten food, cotton balls, tea bags, coffee grounds and filters, paper towels and other compostable materials frozen in time in the tightly packed, anaerobic conditions of the dump. It was common to find newspapers decades-old that were still entirely readable. Unless it was obviously contaminated, they mixed in shredded paper and uncoated cardboard from the recycling facility, along with food scraps from Claptrap. Once they had their first fully composted batch, they could branch out into safely growing more foods eaten raw, no poo required.

Eventually the wall stopped the dust - the coating it left on everything had been affecting the plants' respiration and photosynthesis. They had built greenhouse after greenhouse once glass manufacturing took off, opening portions to ventilate the houses by day and closing them up at night to keep the temperatures to ideal levels. They had also created tarps that could easily be put over some of the houses to shade them if the variety of plant inside did not do well in intense heat or too much direct sunlight. Heartier crops could still be grown in the field. Food production boomed. Everyone who lived in Claptrap was provided with a small lunch and dinner, and that would include the Soldier now. Extra goods and non-perishable food could be earned through working for the community or traded for.

The Soldier takes in everything with rapt attention. Win's welding torch, and the sparks it creates, stirs an instinctual panic and he recognizes the distraction is useful. He had liked watching Steve work earlier - his long, clever fingers moving carefully, oiling pulleys, tightening gears, adjusting various small parts. He does not know how to define the feeling that settles in his chest watching the intense look the smaller man had gotten - brows furrowed, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips - only that he finds himself impressed with Steve's skill. The bigger man knows many ways to make someone suffer without killing them and inversely how to end them swiftly with a single blow. He knows how to move silently in the darkness, how to use virtually any weapon. He knows nothing about machines, save the basics of the one attached to him. 

The Soldier's metal arm was a more recent upgrade - his original flesh one had been completely obliterated on a mission, and they found he could not regenerate a limb (though he had pressed his severed hand back to his wrist once and watched - felt - bone, muscle and flesh knit back together). The new tech was why he was in a separate facility from the others when the government had fallen.

The arm was predominantly mechanical parts, designed to mimic the inner workings of a human limb, housed in a series of plates capable of sliding slightly under or over each other to allow flexibility. A breathable but waterproof seal fused each plate to the next, invisible from the external casing, which was molded to mimic his real arm. The experimental alloyed metal was not terribly heavy but it was incredibly strong - he had even deflected bullets with it. Separate from his body it was half hollow and useless, despite the interest it raised from many who attempted to take it from him. 

The doctors at the facility had done a horrifically painful procedure to get nerves, veins, blood vessels and muscle tissue to grow down into the device, wrapping around artificial tendons, joints and bones. It allowed him fairly normal movement, control, even some sensation. It was a slow process and he had little time once it was fully operational before being unceremoniously ordered back into cryosleep. As such, he was not entirely familiar with all of its workings or maintenance. Perhaps it was fortuitous that he had officially met the little mechanic.


	9. Flowers in the Claptrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds out familial normalcy is the Soldier's poison.

"This is a...human child? I have never seen one so small."

The Soldier looks almost as uncomfortable with the little girl's attentions as he had when the burst from the flamethrower passed near them. She pulls on his pant leg, babbling half-gibberish. He's bolt upright in the wooden kitchen chair he had grudgingly sat in at Steve's insistence (he would not take the first one offered, with his back to the door). 

"Yeah. She's a toddler." Steve smiles wide at her as she turns to him briefly, makes a stupid face that gets her to giggle. 

"Todd. Lur. It is not a... baby?"

"Like a baby but a little older. Violet, how old are you?" 

The little girl holds up two fingers in response before moving to fondle his metal arm. She raps her knuckles on it and shrieks happily at the soft clang. Steve bites back a laugh; after everything he's seen this is the moment that finally makes the Soldier's eyes go a little wide. 

"What is it doing?" His voice is even a bit different, still soft but with the faintest hint of panic. 

"I seem to remember you not liking to be called _it_," Steve says with a smirk as his new acquaintance eyes the girl like a tiny terrorist. "She's just curious." 

"Steeeeeeebe!" she squeals happily, turning to put her arms up. He bends down so she can slide them around his neck, hoists her up with one arm tucked under her bottom. 

Violet had saved Steve. Not in a literal way, like she had mind powers or knew karate or gave him an organ, nor had she stopped him from suicide (the thing many of his companions feared he would attempt when he first arrived). Even at his worst, he had only vaguely considered killing himself. He wasn't religious, but his mother had been a strict Catholic and he couldn't shake the nagging feeling it would disappoint her. There was very little left of Sarah Roger's son when he had come to Claptrap but the parts that kept his body going remained. 

Steve had refused to stay with Nick, or anyone, when he and the others had first brought the young man to the settlement. He couldn't stomach the thought of them being near when he was asleep, vulnerable. Nick had let him stay in the drunk tank - the remnants of a county sheriff station remained at the base of the hill - but even then he wouldn't use the cot attached to one side of the cage, putting his sleeping bag in the middle of the floor, far enough from the sides that no one could reach between the bars and touch him. He used a little spool of wire he pocketed and the empty cans from the ancient soda they had added to his meals to rig up something like an alarm system if the door was slid open.

He barely ever left the cage to begin with, despite Natasha - a short, curvy, beautiful redhead with a slightly hollow look in her hazel green eyes - coming to urge him out into the world daily. She had been with Clint and Nick when they'd found him. He knew right away, at that first meeting, she was a smooth talker. Maybe an ex headshrinker. Or a con artist. She'd tried to use her charm, laced with subtle psychological cues, to convince him to put the gun down. He looked her dead in the eye and said "I'm not buying what you're selling, lady." 

She respected that, which is why she tried not to break his arm when she kicked the pistol out of his hand. Eventually he let her think she'd wore him down, because he could tell it hurt her pride a little he wasn't coming around to her extremely well-done manipulation. Or maybe that was what she wanted him to think and it was another layer to her game. Either way, he was just so bored of sitting there. She had taken him to the pub for breakfast, was off in the back trying to convince Vic to sneak them both a cup of coffee, when he saw _her_, an infant in what appeared to be her father's arms (judging by the shared light blond hair). 

Steve stared, open mouthed, even after the much taller man noticed and started to look back at him, frowning in concern. He knew from a very brief stint in front of a mirror that he looked horrifying - most of the right side of his face puffy and black with bruises, his lips split open in several places, a gash in his forehead. His expression is haunted, like the people he had seen on history films as a boy being freed from prisoner of war camps. 

There's a soft but heated exchange between the man and the person sitting next to him, a woman in a bright red sweater with cream colored skin and long auburn hair. She takes the baby and stands. Steve finally looks away when she heads straight towards him, expecting her to freak out.

"You're Steve, right? I'm Wanda," she says with a tentative smile, "and this is Violet." She tilts the child enough so Steve can get a good look at her. Even at this distance he can't help but go back to staring, his good eye wide. His other eye had finally opened a little this morning after being swollen shut for days. 

He had played nanny to Mrs. Polanski's kids when he was thirteen - a baby named Sid and a slightly older boy named Mark. He grew to love them surprisingly quick, doting and protective. Then she had gotten back together with her estranged husband. When he had come home to Steve at their apartment one night - and the children's mother had explained he had been babysitting once in awhile, would stay tonight if they wanted to go out - he had called Steve a faggot. He accused him of being unsafe to have around his little boys and demanded he leave.

"Wow, faggot. I've never heard that one before," the boy retorted. He was slight and pretty and shy in a way little boys weren't "supposed" to be - it was the go to insult around the building. He heard it less after puberty when he developed a voice almost comically deep coming out of him. He had heard Mr. Polanski hurting his wife a week later and stormed in, smashed a chair across his back, knocking him down and accidentally bouncing his head on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the ambulance. Only the man's lengthy record for domestic violence kept Steve from getting in serious trouble with the police. Court-ordered anger management followed. It was mildly successful, until the trash can lid thing. 

"I'm not a creep, I swear. I just... I never thought I'd see one again," he whispers.

"A lot of people say that." Her voice is kind, holds an unspoken understanding. 

"Would you like to hold her?" Wanda asks. "It's okay," she reassures, easing the tiny bundle into his trembling arms.

He looks down into the sweet little face, gray eyes peering curiously back up at him. His own mist over, hot tears running down his cheeks seconds later. He can't remember the last time the urge had struck him and he hadn't switched himself off inside - disassociating from whatever was happening - or let the rage bubble up and burn it away.

"Sorry," he says, trying to give the baby back after a droplet falls down onto her chubby cheek from his gaunt one.

"I got this!" Wanda takes a rag from her pocket, folds it over. She wipes the tear from her daughter's face then, moving slowly like he's a deer that will spook, dries Steve's face as well. He winces a little.

"Sorry! Parenting skills include immunity to disgust at the fluids of other people and no personal boundaries." She smiles. "Want me to blow your nose for you too?" 

He laughs. _When was the last time he had done that?_

Wanda brings the baby to see him in the cell a few times and eventually invites him to visit the shack she shares with Simon - the tall, lanky man with straw colored hair and light eyes he had seen her with before. His accent is almost too British, like he's in a period film, and a contrast to Wanda's (which Steve has placed as Eastern European). It takes the older man awhile to trust their visitor, with his face moddled purple and yellow for weeks and his demeanor like a stray dog, but he is a gracious host. Simon also can't deny how quickly the baby takes to Wanda's new friend. 

They shared their exodus story with Steve fairly fast. That was almost standard "how's the weather?" conversation here. Both had been teaching at the same coastal city university for a few years and fancied the other, but neither had worked up the nerve to do anything about it. It suddenly seemed so silly, with the plague spreading fast and places around the globe falling into chaos. With a few friends and colleagues they left as the city erupted into violence, heading through burning suburbs into rural America and beyond.

Wanda's brother, Piotr, fell sick first; he'd been visiting from overseas, which she thought lucky at the beginning. Soon Wanda and Simon were making an abandoned barn into a triage for their stricken companions. A week and a half later, they left the farm - alone. A row of crosses in a field was the only sign they'd been there at all. 

Steve, emboldened by his new friendships, started working at the yard and even going on scavenging runs once Nick gave his weapons back. He brought Violet a cradle, scavenged at the dump and cleaned up, complete with a little mattress made of a truck's seat foam he'd even sewn a cover for. His mom had taught him - she was tired of fixing the rips in his clothes from fighting. 

"A baby just shouldn't have to sleep in a box," he'd said, trying to side-step any praise. 

They offered to let him move in with them a bit after and help look after Violet. Wanda was extremely busy with the community's agriculture and Simon was finding ways to filter used motor oil and coolant for the few trucks they had running. Steve slept on the floor near Violet's crib, in the makeshift addition they'd added as her room. He made himself a padded facemask to wear at night, to muffle himself when he talked and screamed in his sleep. He'd woken himself up in the drunk tank more than once that way.

When he jolted up, breathing hard, soaked in sweat, he'd go to the cradle and put a shaky hand on Violet's tiny belly, feel the peaceful rise and fall of her breath. A few parts of himself - his wit, his penchant for interesting conversation - came back quickly. His defiance and mouthiness had never entirely left. Others things took longer. Some, he realized, may not return at all. He wouldn't touch anyone but Violet at first, not even a handshake.

The baby symbolized all the cliché things to him that they so often do - new beginnings, innocence, a chance at a future - but also the easy way he was able to be around her reminded him he was still a person. She made him want to put himself back together so that he could build a better Claptrap for her to grow up in. So that her parents' trust in him as fundamentally a good person was not misplaced.

Violet had taken to Win immediately when Steve introduced her to Wanda and Simon. She helped build a crib when she was too big for the cradle and would talk to her constantly in Cantonese. _ At least_ \- the welder thought -_ I'll have one person to talk with normally, eventually._ After all the business, and pleasure, of today's visits, Win had saved the best for last. 

"She wants to see the flower," the Soldier had relayed to Steve on her behalf an hour before, assuming she meant something in the greenhouse. He had not expected _this_ or that Simon and Wanda would seem not at all afraid of him. On the contrary they were very friendly, too friendly, too curious. Simon in particular asked him many technical questions about his arm and the vaccine trials. He had no practice lying, had literally never needed to do it, and at some point simply stood up and walked out of the building rather than say something Steve would not want him to. 

The younger man had smoothed it over, telling Simon his friend's injury was a sore subject, and Wanda chastised her partner for being so pushy. Steve had found the Soldier back at his home, mask and goggles firmly on along with the vest, laid out on top of the bed roll clutching a mid-sized automatic weapon across his body with both hands. He'd apparently had it in his massive bag, which Nick had curiously not confiscated.

He gave up attempting to get the brunette to answer him after twenty minutes. The Soldier even lay motionless while Steve knelt next to him, popped the magazine out and confirmed this weapon was just as empty as the pistol. Save the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, he appeared dead. Steve sighed heavily and threw a blanket over the Soldier's face, regretting it immediately as he sees doing this for his mother's body with her bedcovers. He took it back off his guest as soon as he was changed into his nightshirt. He read a bit then went to bed early. It had been an exhausting day, after all.


	10. Playing Possum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve surprises the Soldier in more ways than one.

Steve is less than amused when the Soldier is in the exact same position the next morning and still won't answer him. He sits down next to the bigger man and starts to undo the mask's side clip. The Soldier's hand is up like a shot, tight around Steve's wrist. The pressure is not enough to hurt him but definitely to tell him that what he is doing is off limits. The hand immediately returns to the stock of the weapon.

In less than ten minutes Win arrives, eager to see her new translator. She's sorely disappointed when he won't move or respond. She speaks to him in Cantonese off and on for a while, before nudging him several times with her boot and asking Steve sarcastically if he's dead.

"No. Pouting." He makes a whiny face to demonstrate, twisting his lips into an exaggerated frown and pretending to rub tears from under his eyes with the insides of his fists. It's the same gesture Frank Delino used to make at him as he'd taunt "baby gonna cry?" Steve couldn't resist saying it back to him after he had smashed the trash can lid into his face several times, still clutching it in front of him like a shield by the handle. The truth was, Frank was already bawling. Steve begrudgingly had to admit the other boy was even more handsome after his nose healed.

"Call the wahmbulance," Win said pointedly down at the Soldier. She'd learned that one from Clint. She blows out a long breath, cheeks puffing up, then shakes her head. 

The Soldier is surprised when Steve leaves with her without a word. Believing his host to be out for some time he begins to think about how he should spend it. He chastises himself for not planning during the previous evening. He had ransacked the smaller man's entire home once he was asleep, carefully placed everything back exactly as it was. There was nothing to indicate that Steve had been false with him in any way.

He had paused only briefly to watch Steve in his bed as he whimpered and twisted, had even considered waking him from his distress. It had been illogical though, the smaller man allowing him into his community, into his home, especially when he was so obviously wracked by trauma. There must be something else going on here. He watches Steve for another minute, ensuring that he is not acting.

He needed to see the quarters of the one they called Fury. It would be virtually impossible in daylight, even for someone as fast and stealthy as him, with how close together most of the buildings were. Perhaps he would have an easier time sneaking into the medical facility to evaluate what else may be hiding there. Then there was the home of the people with the small, squelching thing - the todd-lur.

While he is evaluating his potential targets, Steve returns. He can smell the fresh fruit before he even sees the bowl, which is only a moment later as Steve stands over him. The aroma is pleasant but not nearly as good as Steve (he smells similar to spiced peaches right now).

"I brought you breakfast," the blonde says pleasantly, sitting down cross legged next to him on the crumpled blanket that had covered his face, briefly, the night before.

He is unsure what had motivated him to get in full uniform last night, only that it had been safe, familiar. He had felt something twist inside him watching Steve through the dark lenses of his goggles as the blonde tried to get him to speak, face working through a series of expressions - worried, disappointed, resigned, weary. He did not know the words to express the foreign feeling of fear that had been slowly building in him since he came here.

He is at an impasse of what to do - he is hungry, and putting something into his stomach would help quell the need. That will require interacting, and he has no desire for more discussion, to hear this person pretend to befriend him while they conceal their alternate motivations. He realizes that he feels very foolish, falsely believing that the protection he provided earned him some measure of acceptance, that he could trust the intent of this person. Still he had not left even though he could have taken his things and slipped away well before Steve returned. He has no explanation and had puzzled through it the entire evening, stretched out on his bedroll.

He does not know why he came here. It was just as easy, perhaps easier, to continue his mission outside of the walls. Keeping Claptrap safe meant keeping the asset safe. He had told himself that he could recover intel, being inside, but it feels less like a reason and more like an excuse. Operating alone was common practice when he had still been a Winter Soldier in the true sense of the words and he had been confined without his "siblings" for many months in the supplemental facility, spent a long time alone on the road. Yet only a few brief hours of companionship and so quickly he had felt an instinctual need to retain it. He could not even blame The Cling, as he had with Luis.

Weak. 

Steve places a strawberry directly on top of the vent in the front of his mask. His stomach loudly growls, though from which source he cannot say.

"I was **not** expecting that," Steve says with a little laugh, picking it back off. "Come on. You're obviously hungry." 

The Soldier lies there, indecisive. Steve sighs in a way he has already become familiar with, puts the bowl down, then starts to work at the latch on his mask again. The Soldier's hand comes up, gripping his forearm but much lighter than earlier. He does not stop Steve from removing it - relinquishing his hold on the blonde - or the goggles after. The smaller man raises both eyebrows at him, one side of his mouth quirked up, as if to say _was that really so hard?_

Something like panic rises slow in his gullet at the feeling that look evokes.

The Soldier knows the food is not poisoned. He would be able to smell it, even if it were the most subtle of notes. He still doesn't move to take any or to sit up, only slides his eyes sideways to stare up at Steve. 

"Fine," the blonde says, "if you're going to act like a baby, I'll feed you like one."

He picks up a strawberry and pushes it to the Soldier's lips. They tentatively open to accept it. The smaller man's fingertips are lightly calloused, so warm. He can taste Steve on the fruit.

After several more, the bigger man finally says, "It is shocking you will go so far to get my guard down, to gain my trust." 

Steve looks away, shakes his head slightly side to side, and then turns back again. 

"I actually thought I had it already, considering you didn't bolt out of here last night when you so clearly wanted to. If you think I'm out to get you, why are you still here?" 

Steve pops two blueberries into the other man's mouth, almost angrily. The Soldier chews slowly, eyeing him with something close to naked suspicion compared to his usually guarded expressions. He does not like that the little mechanic's words seem to be mimicking thoughts he had only minutes ago.

"Did they choose you to lure me here because you are small and weak and I would not suspect you as a threat?" 

"Wow, _rude._ So it isn't just _me?_ I'm part of some sort of conspiracy against you?" The blonde almost sounds amused.

"First your leader lets me in without checking me for weapons, even though he knows the threat I pose. Then the doctor asks for my blood and the scientist questions me about my arm. It is clear they are attempting to gain information from me, to study me. You are working on their behalf to put me at ease." 

Nick had ultimately been the one who had convinced Steve to return to Claptrap with them, but Bruce talked him into submitting to medical inspection; he had screamed that he wanted to fucking leave after they said he had to take his clothes off. Communicable disease was still a thing, even for the bug immune. People brought everything from ringworm to leprosy into the junktowns with them.

To the doctor's credit he had ushered Fury out of the room, very calmly explained that he needed to check the blonde over. To listen to his vitals, especially his lungs to ensure he didn't have anything like pneumonia or tuberculosis, and to see the extent of his injuries. Especially, _those ones._

"I've seen other people sit like that before. I need to see how hurt you are. If you let it go, you could get an infection, have permanent damage. Believe me." Steve could see from the look in his eyes that he was sincere, sympathetic (or he deserved an Oscar for feigning compassion so well, not that there was anyone left to give it to him). The idea that Dr. Bruce Banner, with his rumpled hair and stammer, who had asked him quietly which position would be the least difficult for him to be examined in, was some sort of secret government sadist was laughable.

"It's almost funny, watching you be so salty around a mouthful of berries," Steve says.

The Soldier swallows the half chewed lump, eyes squinting ever-so-slightly at Steve. It was like the smaller man had shut off for a moment, his eyes going dead and then flickering back on.

"There's a glaring hole in your theory. _You know_ that _Nick knows_ exactly what you are and how you work. What would be the point of all the subterfuge?" 

"Perhaps he is unfamiliar with the technology attached to me. Perhaps he does not know my weaknesses." _ I will not fall prey to your produce manipulations._

"Um, fire. _**Duh."**_

The Soldier is displeased. He had been trained not to show emotion, never to raise his voice to his masters, and when he was determined not compliant enough they had installed the neural net and taken the ability to show feeling or raise dissent completely away from him. The alterations in his facial expression and tone were extremely minimal even now. How had this person read into his subtle reactions so well after such a short time together? 

"The alternate option is that you are foolish and overly trusting. As an example, I could easily bite your fingers off." He mentally congratulates himself on this excellent and very scary response.

"I'm not," the smaller man had said simply, not sounding at all concerned, just reaching out to him with more fruit.

"Afraid?"

"_Trusting._ Every person I trust in the whole world was in that little house last night, right before you left." Steve looks down at his free hand picking at the blanket, several berries poised in the other.

Was the blonde implying that had included him? That it had included him but only until he had (ran away) taken his leave? Or was his inclusion purely incidental? _I trust those other people, you just happened to be there._

"I understand how hard it is, to come to a place like this where people still act like people after a long time of being around ones who don't. I was terrified at first, assumed everyone was out to get me. I had no idea how to make small talk or do anything that wasn't just stay alive. Every time people were nice to me, I thought it was a trick. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop." 

"You thought they would steal your shoes?" The Soldier questions.

"No, it's a phrase. It means you are waiting for something you think will happen, you just don't know when. Usually something bad."

This almost perfectly described the creeping, anxious feeling in the Soldier's gut.

"What about Fury? Do you not trust him?" He cautiously accepts raspberries as Steve again offers. He is not familiar with those, and is unsure if he likes the taste at first.

"Nick has done a lot for me, but I'm not an idiot. He always has a plan and there's nothing that stands in the way of that, least of all me."

"Natasha? Clint?" He does not recall the name of the woman at the junkyard who referred to Steve as her kid. He knows that is a young goat. It must be a slang term.

"Nat puts her own agenda first, Fury's second. I'm on her important people list, but certainly not at the top. And Clint means well, but at the end of the day he's on her side, and she's on Nick's."

"Are these people not... your friends?" The Soldier says, chewing a rather large strawberry.

"Liking people and depending on them to have your back against an enemy isn't the same as naively believing that they're going to put you above their own wants and needs."

The Soldier knew all about Want. And Need. Right now the want was telling him to pull Steve on top of him, that he could be gentle, careful, not drink too much, that it would be _ so good_. The need was telling him how empty his belly was, how weak and disoriented he would feel by tomorrow, how impatient it would become when that happened. He ignored both of them.

"I am dangerous," the Soldier does not understand why he says it, his voice gravelly and low, but he cannot silence himself. "I do not believe you can trust me." 

"Everyone's dangerous in their own way," Steve says. He considers the bigger man for a long time after, to the point that the Soldier thinks to look away to break their locked gaze. 

The blonde dips two fingers into the berry juice left in the bottom of the bowl, curling his other digits to his palm. He reaches towards the Soldier's face, presses the ends of his fingers to the center of the brunette's lips until they part, slides them inside his mouth. 

The Soldier cannot help the little noise that comes out of him at the combined taste, the heat, the tactile sensation. Nor can he resist tightening his lips around Steve's fingers, sucking the juice off as they slowly start to leave his mouth. He presses his tongue to them, up and forward, forming a barrier between Steve's skin and his lower teeth, his lip pressing down from above to keep the fingers separate from the teeth on top. They are all very sharp, not just the pointier ones. The lightest contact and the blonde's blood will be in his mouth, and then he will not be able to stop himself. 

The Soldier pictures Steve's revulsion at him - his eyes glowing, his tight grip around Steve's wrist keeping the fingers in his mouth so that he can suck from them, groaning helplessly at the taste.

He does not have words for the act of trust that has just occurred between them, but he knows he cannot ruin it.

"See? Fingers intact." Steve half-smiles. "Take this stuff off," he adds quietly. For the briefest second, the Soldier is confused at his intention. Then the blonde says "you can wear my shirt again. We'll go do something fun."


	11. Cows Moo, Ducks Quack, Babies Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the Soldier's situation isn't all domestic bliss.

The next six months passed quickly in retrospect. Steve and the Soldier fell into a somewhat comfortable routine, getting up around sunrise most mornings, changing with their backs to each other on their respective sides of the room. Steve's nightmares had declined back to their previous infrequency, and he was sleeping pretty well. It wasn't like his guest snored.

That second day they had gone to the Super Store to find clothes for the taller man, a few extra dishes (you brought your own to the messhall) and a brush to get the mats out of his long hair. The Soldier had eventually given up on sleeping in his clothes, often filthy from the day. He would not accept one of Steve's large night shirts to wear. He wondered how Steve could stand feeling so exposed. When he had certain ones on, and the fabric was clingy, he could tell there was nothing beneath them. He had found sweats to wear instead and even finally started to sleep inside the bag, blankets pulled over him. It had been laundered, but it all still smelled like Steve.

They would get their breakfast in the pub, something not everyone participated in. Clint explained to the Soldier that you could have a container of oats all to yourself and have to "eat plain, boring ass oatmeal until your insides glued up," or you could trade in your oats (or whatever breakfast items) to the pub. Those who contributed would get served from small cold and hot lines each morning for however long their trade-in credit was good for. Something big, like a family sized can of juice, would buy you a week. Something small like a single serving box of cereal, or helping in the kitchen that morning, would get you a day. This was how Vic - a handsome, early middle-aged, light skinned black man with a large build, close cropped beard and short afro - kept the pub busy. He offered breakfast cocktails in trade for other goods (part of why Clint was regularly drunk before eight o'clock). He was one of the few who did not participate in any public works and thus was entitled to almost nothing from the public stores.

Steve had traded for potatoes as soon as he got his "property," cut them up into pieces, layered them in barrels with soil and compost behind his house. It was based on a project Ms. Ruiz had done with them in middle school. Each piece would grow a whole new potato - he'd keep some of them and do the same again, trading the others for his pub credits. They had home fries or hash browns or latkas daily.

Lunch and dinner were in the messhall, made from the community's public produce and scavenged items; much of the non-perishable food found on the road would end up in the public coffers. Scavenging was a "public works" job - like agriculture, trashpicking, glass making, guard duty, working medical or messhall, or maintenancing the machines used for communal purposes - so the community got most of what was found with the scavengers getting a cut for their risk. People who put their name in rotated so everyone could have a chance. Many did not volunteer; it was not unheard of to encounter hostiles. Nick didn't want any chickenshits in the field who couldn't handle themselves anyway, he'd said. 

The Soldier, required to be attached at the hip to Steve, was on rotation with him and went on all the same runs. On the first, they had headed out with Greta and some of the others. They didn't run into trouble, which disappointed the Soldier a little since he had only been subsisting on solid food and animal blood. He had gotten a few vermin in one of the abandoned houses during the brief minutes he could separate from the others. Greta watched him like a hawk almost the entire time. Unlike the others, who largely bought Steve's explanation for his friend's strange appearance, Greta seemed to know precisely what he was. She had seen what he could do at the yard.

They discovered the Soldier could not eat most processed food - he threw up several times after canned ravioli - but could consume produce and lightly cooked meat. His back teeth were a strange combination of a molar like structure but with sharper points. They could grind or tear.They had fed him some kind of tasteless gruel in the facility; he did not know what it contained. After he had caught and lifted Vic's new still tank up onto its foundation (it had slipped from its hoist and nearly crushed the older man to death as Steve was assisting him with the winch), the pub owner made the Soldier a bloody steak for lunch - perfectly trimmed and barely seared on the outside. 

The Soldier ate it with relish while Steve took Vic in the back of the otherwise empty pub, got his word that he would not tell anyone what he had seen. Even what most people assumed was a robotic arm could not explain how he had hoisted the massive tank. It gave the Soldier long enough alone to lick the plate, it's spotlessness not lost on Vic when he returned. He started slipping the Soldier little glasses of blood, claiming it was tomato juice, when he came to breakfast at the pub if there was any available from the raw meat.

They couldn't keep livestock at first, not being able to sacrifice the huge amount of water they required, until they had been able to tap the aquifers near the town. Very few farm animals had survived in the local ecological conditions, often abandoned (or mercy killed) by their owners, but Claptrappers would run across them occasionally and bring them to the settlement. Steve and the Soldier would sneak to the makeshift barn - another public works employer - on their way home at night. If the workers were gone and they could shake their shadow, the Soldier could drink a little from the bigger animals while Steve kept watch.

When a cluster of ducks was butchered and hung to bleed out one day, Steve managed to fill a four quart plastic container, claiming he would use it to make czarnina. One of the butchers had looked at him with suspicion and disgust, but the other commented that his Polish grandmother used to make the duck blood soup. Steve was already preparing an excuse in case the guy asked to have some, but he quickly added that he didn't care for it.

Steve had sent the Soldier ahead (to avoid procuring the blood with his fanged, grayish friend at his side) and hurried home, lid firmly on to ensure it was still hot. The blonde had no idea what it said about him that he sort of enjoyed watching the brunette drink it, spying on him from bed over the top of his book to take in his half closed, glassy eyes, the way his throat moved, the way his tongue would swipe over his lips each time he brought the container away from them. He looked two steps away from drug fueled ecstasy and it wasn't even from a mammal - he'd never looked that way after they'd left the pens. Steve realized they were not rushed here; the brunette could drink it slow, savor it, really enjoy the affects.

When the Soldier had inquired how raw meat was kept fresh in the community, Steve explained they had started generating limited amounts of electricity through various renewable means. They had a small solar array and he and Win had built small-scale wind turbines. People had argued at first over how the power should be used. There wasn't close to enough for a fraction of the buildings, so they used battery operated lamps and candles in their homes. Ultimately everyone agreed that they wanted their medical center lit (the Soldier had noticed functional overheads on his first visit) and their beer cold. Ice for their liquor was nice too. 

So power to just part of the pub - a former "house of ill repute" as Vic joked - had been turned on, allowing them to use the walk in cooler (now shared with the messhall and the butchers) and an ice machine. In return, every resident got one free drink token a week. The settlement was named after The Claptrap, the establishment predating the pub, much to Nick's chagrin. Steve assumed it was supposed to be a funny double entendre when the place was a strip club, though no one but Clint found it as such. It had served a wide swath of tiny communities who didn't want it in their own backyard, just like the dump. Hypocrites. Vic (the former bouncer and sometimes bartender), some of the dancers and a few locals took shelter there after their towns had gone to shit. Other than the sheriff's station it had been the only thing for miles.

Steve and the Soldier made the rounds if there was equipment that needed maintenance or repairs, assisted Win with translation and welding (though the Soldier always kept his distance while she worked). The other Claptrappers slowly stopped paying much attention to him, beyond the occasional odd look, idle gossip or judgmental comment believed to be out of his ear shot; with the Soldier's hearing, very few were. 

People would refer to him as Steve's boyfriend regularly, and he simply presumed it meant a friend who was male. The smaller man had seemed strange about it when someone asked him directly if the brunette was, in fact, his boyfriend and had insisted that it was not true. It briefly called what they had built with each other into question for the Soldier. _Were they not friends?_ Steve had certainly referred to him that way many times.

When he asked Win about it, she was not sure how much he would understand about interpersonal relationships, romance or sex. His Cantonese accent and sentence structure were academically perfect, but his vocabulary was just as stunted as in any other language, his reactions to things relaying his lack of real world experience. 

"Boyfriends are...men who are more than friends. They have strong emotions about each other."

"More than friends" sounded like a secret level of friendship that you had to work extra hard to unlock. The Soldier liked a challenge. And he _had_ strong emotions, plenty of them, but few tools to process them - if they were too complex he became confused, frightened or angry. He found himself envious of the ease with which other people interacted, often feeling that he was playing at being a person rather than actually being one. He would have to try harder, be better, _more normal._

The Soldier had to kill someone in front of Steve literally the next day, crushing the assailant's skull with a hard blow from his metal fist when the man ran at them with an axe. Steve is angry at first, chastising him for killing the person so quickly when he may have just been acting out of fear. The Soldier tells him that he had smelled fresh blood - more than one kind - all over the man, among other things he would not elaborate on. He was a threat. They find four freshly dead bodies in an outlying building on the property, stripped and hung up to bleed out in buckets below. It's a horrible discovery, but the Soldier's quick actions impressed Greta and she eases up on him.

"Flesheater," the Soldier said, looking over the scene, thinking back to his first time meeting Clint.

Steve had told the others that he and the Soldier would bury the corpses while they picked the place over. The blonde calmly gave him permission to drain the man and drink whatever he needed to out of the receptacles. 

The Soldier just stared at him for a long time until Steve, neck craned to look back up at him, quietly said, "It's not a test. I know you're really hungry, that the animals aren't enough." 

How? _How did he know that?_ The Soldier was so careful to hide it. He drank his fill from the man and the pails, after carefully taking down the bodies - a woman, man and two teenagers - and covering them with a tarp. They put them in the ground in silence, burying the butcher separate. Steve had stayed quiet the entire ride home, picking at the blister on his hand the shovel had caused.

The blonde apologized - looking very small and tired in his pile of blankets later at home - for chastising him, for not appreciating his protection. He assured the Soldier his mood was not about anything the bigger man had done. If they had only gotten there a little bit sooner, the people would still be alive. The brunette had searched hard for words of comfort or absolution, but could not find any. He felt something like guilt that much of the strength in him now had come from the misfortune and cruelty of others. He would not ascend to the next friendship level if things continued to go that way. 

There had been a rough patch more recently. He had tried to make one of the faces at Violet that Steve often did, but she had screamed with terror rather than delight. The little girl toddled over to hide behind her mother, tears gushing down her reddened face. The Soldier lay on his bed roll with his mask and goggles on for a whole day. He could tell Steve was disappointed he had regressed to that but he could not stand to think of anyone else looking at him, only seeing the girl's horror reflected there. He finally took them off the next morning but would not leave the shack.

Two days later Wanda brought her daughter over with a drawing she had done; it was mostly colored scribbles but was obviously intended to be three people. From the hair, the smaller two figures were Win and Steve, her with the black buzzcut and his a fluffy shock of yellow. The taller figure has dark brown hair and the left-arm was colored with metallic silver crayon. Wanda was blissfully unaware the large man was hiding from everyone, which meant Steve had lied for him yet again, made excuses for his absence from their almost daily visits. Violet had kept asking where "Soljuh" was. When the Soldier quietly apologized for upsetting the child on his last visit, Wanda laughed and explained that once she had yelled "boo" unexpectedly and Violet had an identical reaction, running to Simon screaming like her hair was on fire. The Soldier shuttered internally at the thought.

The little girl had insisted that the Soldier carry her around after. Steve explained without Simon along for their walk, the Soldier was the tallest and offered the best view. The smaller man was not unhappy with the arrangement - she got heavy for him quickly nowadays. The taller man felt something like pride that the child had judged him worthy. Steve said he had offered to give her parents what he had called "alone time together." The Soldier was very curious what that meant, but did not ask. How could they be alone, together? And what were they doing while they were?

Even in this part of the world, stricken with drought and so close to the wastes, there were still subtle changes in the seasons. It was growing a bit more tolerable during the day but much colder at night. Steve's breath hung visible in the air by the time they returned Violet to her parents. The Soldier had stared at Steve in quiet surprise for a long time after he had offered to let him sleep in bed with him that night. Beyond catching the smaller man a few times when he had slipped at the yard, and a few accidental brushes, they had not touched again after the day with the berries. 

"It's freezing in here, plus it's so big I would hardly notice you," Steve had said. The bed was impractically large for the tiny space.

The Soldier declined with no explanation - he had not fed recently and would not be as warm as Steve. He did not want the smaller man to notice this about him if he had not already, just one more thing setting him apart from the humans around him. Besides, it was so much harder to think that close to him when he was hungry. It was already difficult at a distance. 

Steve had just calmly told him that the offer was open if he should change his mind in the future.


	12. Your name is Buck, right? And you're here'ta...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve asks the age-old question, what's in a name?

In Claptrap, virtually everyone had a nickname. They were primarily used over walkie-talkie and CB, but some people - like Win - went by their's all the time. She had learned Americans gave no shits about what her real name was and would probably not make the effort to call her by it if she told them. Steve had tried, more than once, to get it out of her. She would just pretend to not understand and eventually he would change the subject. 

Unlike other people, she knew he would make every effort to use it and say it correctly. Not telling him, not hearing her real name spoken fondly from his lips was just one of the many ways she kept the barriers up inside herself against him early in their friendship. The Soldier lacked the social niceties of other people. He had not asked what her real name was, maybe did not even realize Win wasn't it, and Steve had been too distracted to think to have him ask. For now. 

It was Clint who had first started calling Steve "Captain America," after a particularly long lecture from the smaller man about what he felt the nation was supposed to have stood for and how they could bring those ideals into their new world, instead of the same pointless bigotry and scramble to be on top. Social Justice Warrior Steve had stuck briefly but it was too on the nose for Clint's liking. Steve in return had sarcastically nicknamed him Hawkeye because, for a former Olympic gold medalist with 20/20 vision who claimed he could shoot the wings off a fly, he seemed to constantly miss everything happening around him until there was danger or titties involved.

They called Nat "Black Widow" because she went through a long string of sexual partners before Clint came around. It was rumored that most of them had been killed, some even by her. She claimed she just hadn't been that interested in settling down, her lovers couldn't handle it and, since Claptrap had not had as much to offer then as it did now, had simply went elsewhere. She was dangerous though - Steve had seen that first hand more than once. She didn't talk about what she had done in the old world but she showed up here already knowing Fury and that said a lot.

Nick had been one of the first people to show up at Claptrap, other than thirty or so locals from nearby towns that no longer existed. His comrades, former Special Ops, already called him Fury when they arrived with him after the collapse of civilization. Phil, who was more like an assistant to Fury than a colleague (he desperately wanted a nickname but never had one stick), drunkenly offered one night that Fury was in fact not a nickname at all but Nick's family surname. 

"He just thinks it sounds cool, to pretend people chose to call him that," he said, rolling his eyes.

Names have power. They say a lot about who you are, or are not, to those around you. Did they care, or respect (fear) you enough to call you what you chose or at least something that represented just you? Or maybe something shared with someone, but with meaning, like naming your child after your parent. The Soldier had no name of his own.

Clint started calling him "Two-Three" over the walkie and the Soldier found it acceptable. It bothered Steve, wore on his mind like one of those little splits in your cuticle that would heal if you stopped fussing with it. The Soldier was a number, one of many. Like a socket from a set, interchangable and absent purpose without a wrench to guide it. 

"Did they ever call you anything else?" Steve had finally queried one day. 

After a short, silent consideration, the Soldier had responded flatly, "Deadman." 

Steve couldn't help pondering that it would be a pretty badass nickname, but he didn't think it would exactly endear the Soldier to the locals. Some of them still whispered about him being a zombie or a cannibal, or a cannibal-zombie, which Steve felt was fairly redundant (like saying "assless chaps"). The fact that people heard Fury talk about the eye-eating incident was not helpful.

A few days later, Steve had returned to the yard on a foraging expedition. It was nearly Nat's birthday. He had strongly considered giving her the sexy nightdress, but since he had been sleeping in it (and occasionally jerking off in it) for two and a half years he thought that was a bit...grody. Some part of him liked the difference in the way the Soldier looked at him when he wore it versus his other bedtime creations, one freckle-spattered shoulder hanging out of the thin fabric, but he wouldn't actively admit it to himself. 

He and the Soldier were going through a fresh pile of trash that the last team had excavated when they came across a mounted stag head. It had been a beautiful preservation job, and the ten-point rack was mostly in tact, but part of its face was missing. The Soldier held it reverently between his hands and stared intently into the remaining eye for so long that it started to make Steve concerned.

"Looks like Fury," Steve half-chuckled, attempting to cut the tension with a joke.

"Buck." The Soldier said simply in return, enunciating the consonants more than was typical for him, like he was feeling out the concept behind the word. The holes in the Soldier's vocabulary still occasionally surprised Steve. As best as he could tell, his new friend was extremely skilled in all of the languages he spoke. The younger man had watched him interact in at least half a dozen different ones by now - sometimes calling people out on not so slyly talking shit about one or both of them but often just to put people at ease. There were words he just didn't appear to know though, or seemed to take a long time to recollect the meaning of. 

Steve imagined him learning pictures of animals in a workbook like a small child after Ops reanimated him. _This is a buck. This is a doe. You don't need to remember them; you'll be hunting humans._

"Have you," Steve paused, "seen one of those before? Alive I mean?" 

"Yes," the Soldier stated simply, handing it to him without looking up. 

Steve considers the state of the stag head. Nat is actually really into taxidermy, bones and pelts. Maybe that's why she fell for Clint. He is a gifted hunter after all. The blonde envisions a pretty but disturbing art project, and is lost in his thoughts when the Soldier speaks again.

"I remember a woman sometimes from… before." He makes an odd half-gesture towards his face with his metal arm. "She says this word again and again. Buck. I think… it is his name." 

"Whose name?" Steve looks at the Soldier gazing at his silver hand and wants to say something sympathetic. _Sorry the government felt the need to take your entire history from you in the name of their own selfish ends. Sorry you feel like a freak because they mutilated you, but hey, a metal limb is pretty cool right?_

"The one who… was this body, before." 

"So, then, it's **your** name?" Steve asks cautiously.

"No… Yes. I am unsure how to answer." The Soldier sounds perplexed, though anyone other than Steve wouldn't notice the minute shift in his tone. 

Steve takes one glove off, reaches out slowly, gently squeezes the upper part of the Soldier's organic arm. "It's okay. You don't have to."

They look at each for a long moment, the Soldier unblinking, until Steve turns away. After rooting through the heap in silence for nearly twenty minutes the Soldier offers, voice even more soft than usual:

"You can call me Buck if you want."

"Okay. _Buck._" Steve swears a little shiver goes down the Soldier's spine when he says the word out loud.

Back at Claptrap too late for the mess meal, Steve makes them dinner while the Soldier - no, _Buck_ \- brings their bedding in from the line. Buck had thought from night one he would be fine laying with nothing on the cold floor, that this was an unnecessary luxury. He told himself he went through the motions for appearance's sake - to seem more human, to not reveal his abilities any further - not because he liked the physical comfort the bag and blankets provided. Lately he had become acutely aware how much looking "normal" for Steve motivated him. For instance, he ate the food the younger man offered even though it would do very little to keep the empty feeling in his stomach at bay. The _need_ was loud this evening.

It was usually easier outside, in the open air. The smell of Steve, clinging to all of his possessions and trapped inside the small metal box that they both now called home, became overwhelming sometimes. Buck would lay there in the night, mouth watering, teeth extended, canines pressing into his bottom lip. Sometimes he would manage to drift off but the same dream would wake him - crossing the room, sliding Steve easily out of the bed, pulling the smaller man's head to the side, driving his teeth into the soft little neck.

At least when Steve was asleep, Buck could use the hatch in the ceiling to go up to the roof. He would lay on the cold corrugated steel until he was able to calm down, until he could no longer see the glow from his eyes reflected on his metal hand when he held it above his face. Until his teeth had retracted. Sometimes the visions crept into the day when the blonde was too near as well. Steve would lecture him ad nauseam about not wearing the mask inside Claptrap, so putting it on to hide what was happening was not an easy option. He could not let Steve see his face, changed with need. With want when the need was quiet. His friend would be disgusted or terrified. 

After their closeness in the yard and back at the house today, his hunger felt massive. Buck wandered out particularly far to escape the thoughts that flooded in even stronger once Steve was settled under his covers. He heard gargled screams and followed them to two men next to a small fire, one writhing on top of a limp form while the other watched, laughing. Buck had barely gotten any blood out of the first one, practically ripping him to pieces and wasting most of it in the dirt. Chuckles ran off into the night, giving Buck enough time to realize that the prone body was already dead, one side of their head caved in. 

He had easily chased the other man down, made sure that the bite was painful, that he felt everything as the life slowly left him. The Soldier drank every drop he could, forcing his own pulse into the man after his heart had stopped to keep the blood flowing. Buck lay on his back after in the scrub grass for a long time, watching his breath form little clouds with the starry sky as their backdrop. He felt sated and not the slightest bit conflicted about what he had just done. There were murderers who killed out of self-defense. People who attacked you out of fear. Thieves who stole out of necessity. They could be spared unless absolutely necessary, but rapists and slavers needed killing. 

There was nothing of interest in any of their things except a map with this area circled. Perhaps they were looking for the settlement. Good then that he had found them before they had found it. He could not have any Claptrappers running across his kill - he messily buried them and their possessions with his hands. He dug a separate, better grave for their victim, closed their eyes with his metal fingers, crossed their arms like he had seen in one of Steve's books. The Soldier had a long debate with himself - he should just bury them, blood and all, but it could be some time before he got more; there was no bringing them back after all. Ultimately he drained them as well, then put the body carefully in the Earth with a small apology. He could not help but think of Steve's melancholy when they were only hours too late to save the people hung in the shed - Buck had missed protecting this person by minutes. He would do better next time. 

Buck snuck back into Steve's home, stripped and cleaned himself up carefully, then changed into one of Steve's nightshirts. The smaller man looked surprised but not upset when he was awakened by Buck sliding in bed with him. He felt confident he could do that now that his belly was full and his body warm; not even the intense cold outside had touched him. The bigger man reached out, slow and careful, placing his flesh hand on Steve's upper arm and giving it a gentle squeeze, mirroring the smaller man's gesture from that morning. He tried to copy the little smile that bloomed on Steve's face with his own, closed mouthed to hide his teeth. It was nice to be so near Steve, to feel his heat, to touch him without the hunger constantly chattering at the back of his mind. Buck had even slept and woke well after sun up, feeling less muddled than usual. 

Steve was already gone on his rounds, a note on top of the low bookshelf that made up his headboard under a can of peaches. He could not believe the younger man would be able to leave without the noise waking him. He stretched out in the bed - it really was huge - then rolled over face down, inhaling Steve's scent from the pillows. The feed-want he felt was only a pleasant titillation, not a desperate plea, the need blissfully silent. It was good to be full, to be in charge of his thoughts, his body. 

It was _his body._ He was not a Winter Soldier anymore, not a tool for others to accomplish their ends. Nor would he ever be the person who came before. He was becoming something _like a person_ though and it seemed right to reclaim part of the name this body was called when it was human. Buck. He liked the way Steve said it, softness in the sound of the first consonant when his full lips pressed together to make it.

He was not sure why he had put Steve's nightshirt on, only that it felt right to wear it in the smaller man's bed. When he had turned onto his belly the covers slid partially off. Buck does not typically wake up this warm, buried in such heavy blankets that trap and amplify his body heat, nor does he usually leave his own bedcovers with so little on; his skin reacts noticeably to the chill and the contrast is stimulating. He is suddenly very _aware of himself_ \- goosebumps lightly prickling at his flesh arm, long, bare legs stretched the length of the mattress, a cool eddy between his legs under the open shirt. He mostly ignores those parts of himself even though, as Fury had mentioned, he was anatomically the same to a human in that respect. 

He occasionally woke with his member partially erect and today was the same; he could feel it pushing awkwardly into the mattress and returned to laying on his back. Normally it would be pressing uncomfortably against the thick fabric of his uniform trousers - he would ignore it, it would go away. There was no restraint now. On the contrary, the soft, thin fabric felt good against him. He has never touched himself there before except in necessity, does not know why - in this moment, in this place - he reaches down and rubs himself gently through the cloth. 

A little breath bursts out of him. The feeling is very pleasant; he grows harder, that want allowed to become a little louder for the first time. He keeps doing it, slowly intensifying the pressure, until a little groan escapes his mouth. There is a moment of doubt - perhaps he is not meant to do this, perhaps sexual pleasure is not something he has the right to - but he feels a small spark of anger at that. This is _his_ body and if it is capable of enjoyment that hurts no one he should be able to feel it. 

The Soldier has never been fully unclothed since he left the facility. He had been ordered to do so there, was often left naked in his cell, exposed in the laboratory or operating rooms for all to see, touched and prodded, used. The sudden surge of defiance presses him to disrobe for his own designs, no one else's. He stretches back out, completely nude, looking up at the collage that covers the ceiling. It has often fascinated him as he laid on his bedroll, but he has not studied this portion before. 

As he surveys the artwork, his flesh hand drifts lazily back to his penis, still engorged. Touching it now, skin to skin, produces an even stronger sensation than before. He just rubs himself at first, not entirely sure what he is doing. Eventually he wraps his hand loosely around the shaft, slides it slowly to the tip of his length and then down to the base, nested in coarse, curly hair. His nerves buzz pleasantly as he repeats the gesture again and again, slowly tightening his grip. His fingers graze over the head on an upstroke, accidentally gathering the wetness that has formed on the tip, spreading it along one side of his length as he slides his hand back down. The slickness feels even better. He brings his hand to his mouth, licks it several times, covering it in a generous layer of saliva. 

When he returns his hand experimentally to himself the slide of it is incredible. He openly moans, a guttural, needy sound. His hips rock up off the bed as his hand strokes, thrusting into the tight, hot wetness. His metal hand runs slowly over his body, fingertips light against his hip, abs, chest. Their cool press is invigorating against his warm skin. He finds the hard nub of his nipple, whimpers at how sensitive it is. He begins rubbing it in slow circles, panting, until suddenly a hot rush of pleasure whites out everything like a nuclear blast. 

When he can finally open his eyes, he feels the cold air where he is wet on his chest and belly. He runs a trembling hand through the moisture and lifts it for inspection. The liquid that came out of him is slightly viscous, perfectly clear, with a mildly sugary aroma. It is the faintest bit sweet when he tastes it. He cleans himself with a rag, adds it to their pile of dirty laundry, eats his breakfast and then heads to find Steve, his body swimming with little currents of electricity.

"Does he... look sort of happy to you?" Clint asks Steve when Buck joins them at the aluminium extruder.


	13. The doctor will see you now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck tries to reconcile his past with his present.

Steve started a new pre-bedtime routine of reading together with Buck once it became clear the bigger man intended to keep sharing his bed. They would sit a few feet apart with their backs to the wall, legs splayed out on the mattress, each with their own choice in hand. Eventually, if their knees touched on accident they would not move away from each other. The smaller man voraciously consumed books - the monument to his gleaned knowledge was shimmering in the sun as it shielded the entire settlement. 

It was slower going for the Soldier. Fiction fully baffled him. Between metaphors, euphamisms, slang, idioms and colloquialisms, he could only understand about half of what he was reading. He was certainly intelligent but context clues proved difficult for deciphering these literary devices. One had to understand what the sentence was conveying to presume the meaning of a word within it. If Buck did ask questions, Steve would patiently try to answer - occasionally the bigger man was even more confused after. 

The event, no _the act_, that had happened that first morning in Steve's bed was in his thoughts a lot. What did it mean? Was the act something others did? Was it okay for him to ask Steve about? Was the location in which it was performed acceptable? When could he do it again? He was virtually never alone. 

Steve asked him one night if he wanted to join him for a game of cards at Win's house - he had politely declined. The sweats were pooled around his ankles within minutes of the smaller man's exit, the sound of his spit covered hand making little wet noises as he stroked himself standing next to the bed. He finishes quickly and is surprised to find himself hard not much later. He does it again, tentatively cupping his sack with his metal hand. That part of himself is so sensitive and he quickly learns to be careful not to squeeze too hard; he does not enjoy pain with his pleasure. It takes much longer to get release a second time but it feels even more amazing when he finally does, his desperate noises echoing off the metal walls. Steve begins making a weekly habit of the card games - Win seems to miss having time with just Steve and he thinks it is good for Buck to not feel like he is being babysat (despite what Nick had originally said). The Soldier takes full advantage of this time alone, experimenting.

Buck started to read only manuals (even a random set of stereo instructions) and academic books. Their language was technical but straight forward, saying precisely what was meant. One day digging through a rather large pile of the latter in a musty box he discovered an old hardcover about human sexuality. It had what was described as a "rave review" on the back by someone named Dr. Ruth, lauding how comprehensive it was. He had side-eyed Steve, ensured he was not looking, then switched the dust jacket with one from a book about the rainforest. He had silently shown it to the blonde when asked, nervous he would sense the falsehood, but the smaller man just gave him a little smile and returned to his own book. 

He understood what sexual intercourse was in the sense that it entailed the entrance of a penis into another person's anus or vagina, that in the latter situation a child could be produced, but beyond that… It was not a subject people seemed to speak about so he questioned if it was acceptable to do so and by extension to talk about what he was doing to himself. Certainly it seemed related to sexual intercourse even if it did not involve a partner. Perhaps he could gain information from the text. He reads the entire book in one night. Reads it again the next. Rereads it a third time.

It gives him answers - what he had done was a form of what was called masturbation, it was quite common and starting to do it was a normal part of adolescent development - however it raised so many new questions. Firstly, why was he just starting now? He was not an adolescent. It was clear from his primary and secondary sex characteristics, which he learned about in the book, this body had hit "puberty" long before the Winter Soldier existed. Certainly its previous owner had "jerked off," one of the many slangs listed for the act. He decided that was a terrible phrase since he had actually ripped off someone's penis before. 

He could guess that what had been done to him had buried his "libido," as he learned the sexual drive was called. When he had awakened (no,_ had been reanimated_) there was only pain, fear, confusion. Jumbled thoughts, cold skin, holes in his body that slowly closed but did not fully disappear. He could not form words or keep focus on what was being said to him by the people around him. 

His human teeth had fallen out one by one once he was placed in isolation. His new set pushed into their place, leaving him spitting and drooling dark blood all over the metal box they kept him in as he screamed. He could _feel_ the musculature in his jaws changing, adapting to retract the teeth partially into his gums. It left a more manageably sized portion of them - still longer than his original ones - exposed in his mouth. He cut himself on them often at first. 

Then it had started, _the need_. 

His new teeth descended from the top, ascended from the bottom, filling up the space to the point he could not keep his lips together. The drive to feed made him a mindless beast, tearing apart whatever - or whoever - they put in with him. 

Only after the need was fulfilled again and again did something like coherent thought start to come to him, speech slowly following. The want took its place. He was untethered from whoever he was before and much of the knowledge that person possessed, unaware that he had even been anything or anyone else before gaining consciousness in this place. The context clues of what was happening to him were useless when he could not comprehend what normal human life or behavior was. You cannot recognize you are an experiment if you do not know what science even is. The want, at first, only said one thing in its wordless voice - _if you feed, you will escape this for a time._

It held onto a piece of him even while his mind was systematically rebuilt by their techniques. Even when they experimented on him, testing his limits. Even when they tortured him to make him comply - when they shock him for raising his voice, burn him for showing anger, fear, hesitation. When they whipped his knuckles or the soles of his feet with a thin metal rod because he failed at some task.

_ We learn through suffering,_ the lead trainer had said. 

The want contributed to his non-compliance. He attacked guards, doctors, even though he was well-fed (blood and gruel), even though he had started to learn to ignore the need. He wanted to behave, to please, to succeed, but the fleeting moment of bliss when he drank - of everything else melting away - was worth whatever they did to him. The memory of seeing the man with the rod ripped in half, of being soaked in his hot blood, became the bedtime story the Soldier told himself that allowed him to sleep.

Some days all he could see were his teeth falling out onto the floor of his cell again and again. He often resisted returning to it. The cell meant no distractions from whatever this existence was. Eventually he started to dream, seeing things that were not from this place, even though surely he had only ever been here. The dreams filled him with panic, longing, sadness - all things he lacked the words to express or experience to comprehend. Only cryofreeze stops them. He is in and out of it, sometimes for months, sometimes for years.

Dr. Zola, the small, bespectacled man with the pinched face who ran the facility, seemed to age slowly, for a human. The Soldier would wake to a lot of new staff and know a significant amount of time had passed. After one freeze the doctor finally looked noticably different - his hair a bit thinned, light wrinkles around his eyes. Completely new staff attend his demands. One of them mentions to another that this time he has been frozen for twelve years. 

The Soldier does not have a chance to do what the want tells him. Massive metal bands restrain him as they slice his scalp, the protective layer beneath it, clip them to the sides to keep them from healing back together. As they saw through his skull then slice the barrier around his brain. He is fully awake throughout - no anesthesia or pain killer has been found that works on his kind. He hears the screams of other Soldiers before they are drown out with his own.

The doctor tells him a series of words - there is a static-like sound and feeling in his head, all of his nerves on fire, his ears ring, his vision going white. It is over in less than a second. Suddenly he is blank. Orders follow and he obeys. When he is meant to serve a new person, they tell him the series of words and he becomes their puppet.

He still possesses the skills they trained him in - multiple languages, hand to hand combat, weapons use, explosives, deciphering technical schematics and maps - and could speak when spoken to or required by mission parameters. He could register something like physical pain to alert him his body was becoming excessively damaged. 

Looking back now he realizes even with the neural net in a vague, unconscious way he had sensed the need in its own prison somewhere in his depths. Even when he was not fed it was never for a moment free to take control. But there was nothing else - no thought, no feeling, no emotions. There are no dreams when they (rarely) allow him rest, only black void. He is in and out of cryosleep regularly. Zola's blonde hair very slowly becomes more gray.

The want was more elusive. It began to speak silently from many places yet from nowhere, growing more prominent over time in the emptiness of his mind, particularly when he was ordered to endure... certain things. _Something is not right. Something is not right. Something is not right. We do not want this. Make it stop. Drink them. _ He cannot heed it. He is the picture of obedience. Later he will take comfort that the damage to his brain (though now healed) blurred out some of those memories. 

The book talked about sexual trauma, but he skipped most of that chapter. It upset him in an undefinable way. He did not want to equate sexual violation with the victimhood he forced on others when he bled them. Was he _violating_ them, even when he let them live? Did they wake in the night seeing his eyes, feeling his teeth in them, sweating with fear even though he was possibly hundreds of miles away? Luis had certainly not seemed to feel victimized, but that had been a special set of circumstances and he could not guarantee that someone else would react the same in identical ones.

It also discussed psychological development in tandem with sexuality. He was not thrilled to discover he qualified as "emotionally immature," but talk of the emotional bond that could lead to sex, or forge or deepen from it, was very interesting. He had not considered that people had intercourse for reasons other than their own base pleasure or pro-creation. In addition he is shocked to learn that "sex" does not need to involve a penis at all. It can be done between people of any gender identity (a very new concept to him) with hands, mouths, _objects_. He had looked at his metal hand for a while after reading that part.

It is difficult for him to understand the nuances between what the book calls romantic attraction versus sexual attraction, romantic love versus love based in friendship or family ties. This mirrors his own difficulty separating the want, the need, this new (old?) want, his desire for companionship. 

Understanding why his relationship with Steve is not like those with others often vexes him. He would not sleep in bed with Natasha, does not feel a hot stab of neediness if Clint is too busy with other people. The warm feeling he gets when Win puts her hand on his arm or Simon smiles at him as he holds Violet is very different than when Steve does those things, but he cannot explain in what way. Emotions are ephemeral (he really liked that new word) and hard to pin down, hard to separate from the feed-drive.

The training in the facility allowed him to be more than the need, to be a warrior, but their other teachings lingered in every corner of his mind. He had to slowly build on becoming something (someone) else after he had left his cryotube for the last time, to develop his own way of being - absent instruction. His own morality (another newly learned word). Now, he was evolving again mentally, emotionally, perhaps recovering parts from the person he had been when he was actually Buck.

That suddenly felt correct, that he _was_ the actual Buck, or at least pieces of whatever was left of him formed the foundation of who he was turning into. He was not some new consciousness stuffed into an empty vessel, even if he did not have access to their - his - memories. Maybe with a handle on the bloodlust, many advancements made towards undoing the years of brainwashing, there were very human wants and needs surfacing. Sexual. Emotional. 

A realization dawns. Steve is human. He may have those wants and needs.


	14. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's morning is a shitshow.

Steve is a bit surprised to be summoned to Nick's office by Carol, explicit instructions to _come alone_ (precisely what Buck was going to be busy doing, unbeknownst to the mechanic, during his absence). She eyes the Soldier with interest as he moves to stand not far behind the smaller man, still in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking her up and down. 

"So, he's kinda hot," she offers after a few moments of walking in silence. "That why you don't come to poker anymore?"

"No, I've been playing at Win's and… just busy." He doesn't look at her. 

"Busy gettin' busy? Or busy avoiding me and Sam busy?" She gives him a glowing smile, mouthful of perfect straight white teeth that he catches from the corner of his eye. She looks like the golden volleyball fantasy of every college boy, just that hint of tomboy that makes her even more approachable. Steve doesn't answer her. 

"Look, what happened...I really hoped that we could at least be friends. For a long time I thought we would be. We were seeing you around a lot more and things were cool..." She puts her hands in her pockets, fans out her elbows as she walks.

"Maybe you shouldn't have kept inviting me over to have sex with you." Steve stops, looks her dead in the face. He had never admitted it to himself, but it bothered him that they kept insinuating they should pick up where they left off. Like what happened had been a minor inconvenience, easily forgotten, and not a breakdown-worthy event.

"We never said come over and have sex with us, did we? We just invited you to hang out. You read into things. Just like you read into what happened that night. No one was trying to do anything that you didn't want." Carol's voice isn't unkind, but it cuts through him anyway. 

"Excuse me? So I, what, asked for it?" 

"I didn't mean that like it sounded. I..." She looks sincere. He doesn't stay to hear the rest, walking away from her without a backwards glance, straight to Fury's office.

Steve and Nick have barely spoken since the argument at the gate, the former less than thrilled that the latter is still occasionally having them followed. Steve's inherent distrust of someone so blatantly used to being the biggest swinging dick in the room had only deepened once his suspicions about Nick's background turned out to be nowhere near as bad as the truth.

"How are you sleeping?" Nick asks with an (on-purpose) poorly disguised smirk.

"I presume you already know," Steve responds, staring the taller man down. So much for spying on them _occasionally_. He pictures Phil outside his window with a comically huge telephoto lense.

"You never cease to amaze me, kid. I once saw you pop Clint Barton in the nose for grabbin' your arm, but you invited a bloodsucking monster between your sheets." Fury is leaning against the long oak cabinet behind his desk, arms folded. 

_Invited. Is he listening to them too?_

Steve wonders for the thousandth time how Fury can stand to wear that trenchcoat in this heat (though it's still a bit cool this early). He does cut an impressive figure in it - tall, dark skinned, head shaved, not exactly handsome but with a certain magnetic intensity radiating from his remaining good eye. 

"Correction," Steve looks at him from under his brows, head pivoting a bit from side to side like it often does when he's spoiling to tell someone off, "_he came up behind me_ and grabbed my arm. Buck is smart enough to not do that."

"_Buck_? You named the puppy?" Nick has that look. _I'm very displeased with your flippancy, Rogers._

"No that _is_ his name. Was his name. Before you and your friends experimented on him. Not sure you have room to talk in the monster department, using a dead man for your little program." 

He feels like he's tarnished the gift given to him of the name by sharing it with Nick - the Soldier has only ever instructed Steve to call him Buck. The dig at the taller man makes him feel a bit better about it though. 

Fury barks out a laugh, shakes his head. "It was never _my_ little program. I thought I made that clear. Man, they took some serious time writing its back story, making it sympathetic." 

"And who exactly is _they_?" The smaller man lifts his hand and circles it dramatically at the last word. "Do you have a Nixon complex or do you have someone specific in mind that's supposed to be plotting against us?" 

"You can't see what it's doing? Endearing itself to you, using you to get access." Fury mimics his gesture.

_Get access to what?_

Steve let's out a loud "ha" - it sounds a touch hysterical. "If only you knew how much like the Soldier you sound. You're out to get _him_, he's out to get _you_. I'm a hapless pawn in one of your games, I'm a manipulative spy in the other. Yada yada." He sounds excessively bored with the whole thing. 

"It told you it thought you were trying to manipulate it?" This actually seems to interest Fury. 

"I mean, to begin with that's what **he** assumed. I guess my charming personality won _him_ over." God, this was one step away from talking to a transphobe. _Pronouns. Are. Important,_ Steve wants to grate out. 

"I thought it was fooling you, but now I see you're fooling yourself. You think you have some kind of connection with it? You think it...what? Loves you? _Wants you?_" 

_The insinuation being no one could love him. No one could want him. Damaged goods. Crazy little shit that bites the hand that feeds. Pissing off hot blonde girls when they try to make amends with you._

"He protects this place. Helps with the work. And he asks for nothing in return anyone else here wouldn't." Steve tries to sound matter-of-fact but there's an edge to his tone.

Honestly, he disliked _what_ Fury had asked just as much as how he had asked it. He had no idea how to define his relationship with the Soldier and actively avoided thinking about it, especially since they'd started sharing the covers. The blonde still had no idea what possessed him to offer that but he knew having Buck near did make him feel safer. 

"Three hots and a cot, right?" Fury sneers. "It must have loved that Tupperware bin of blood you special delivered to it, maybe more than snacking on the cows." 

"He hasn't hurt anyone." The smaller man is painfully aware of how guilty that sounded. _You're caught, Rogers. Hand in the cookie jar. Duck in the Rubbermaid._

"Anyone inside the wall, anyway." Nick has that _I know something you don't know_ tone the blonde often finds so infuriating. He follows it with an intentionally long pause. 

Steve's brows furrow. What did Fury mean, no one inside the wall? Almost as if reading his mind, the taller man adds, "I hear it bashed a man's head in on one of the runs." 

"He was protecting me." _Nope, Steve, you don't sound incredibly defensive at all, buddy._

"And when it stopped to slurp down pails of blood from the slaughtered family, was it _protecting_ you then?" 

_Yes_, Steve wants to say. _From himself._ He could see the need twisting at Buck sometimes, even though he tried so hard to conceal it. 

"There was nothing we could do for them. If that's what it takes to keep him strong so he can help defend us, I can live with it." And he can. Of all the things that bothered him about the situation, dead body bloodharvesting was quite far down the list.

"And when the animals and the corpses aren't enough?" Nick looks dead serious, not a hint of mockery. 

"If you think he's such a danger, why did you let him in here?" He can't help but think these are words very close to Buck's own coming from his mouth. There's the briefest flicker of doubt; maybe, just maybe, the Soldier isn't here entirely for his stated reasons. Maybe he is quietly molding Steve's view. 

"Keep your friends close, keep genetically enhanced hellspawn closer." Fury moves his head in a little circle as he says it, light reflecting off his scalp. He's sweating in his jacket after all. 

It finally dawns on Steve. "There's something you want from him, isn't there?"

"Sure. Eternal life. And some of those tight pants he's always wearing. I just want this place and all inside it, even your punk ass, to be safe." Fury plays it off perfectly. Anyone would buy his sarcasm, his "I'm the mean uncle who still cares" routine. 

Nick doesn't know it, and maybe the only other person to catch on is Nat, but he has a tell. Just a minute twitch of his spindly eyebrow. Steve had memorized even the smallest details of Brock's body language - he had to always be a step ahead of him, mentally at least - and all that practice now helped him read other people (like the Soldier, so he'd thought). He watches Fury's face - _eyebrow twitch, right on time._

"That's exactly why I brought him here. He's a one man army." Steve pretends to play along, dropping his former question. Fury would only reveal his agenda directly if he wanted to, not if pressed. Catching him in a slip will be difficult but easier than trying to force the issue. 

Fury finally raises his voice, like Steve is being willfully stupid. "Trouble being **it's not a man**!" 

The blonde can't help thinking the Soldier certainly _looked like a man._ Steve had accidentally caught a peak one morning - when he'd sat up and pushed the covers back the other man's nightshirt was twisted and hitched up. It had happened to Steve in his sleep more than once. The Soldier had covered himself quickly and went back to wearing sweatpants to bed. Fury was right that it was all there so far as he could tell, grayish like the rest of him with a soft lavender hue in some areas rather than pinkish like Steve's. 

_That's possibly the most inappropriate train of thought in the world for you to be having right now, Steve, while your sort-of-boss grills you._

Besides, seeing him (seeing - ahem - _it_) had upset him more than anything. He had gotten comfortable thinking of the Soldier as a non-sexual being, someone it was okay to be close with because he would never, ever want anything like that. Admittedly it hadn't stopped the blonde from letting the brunette share the bed - just because the Soldier had a penis didn't mean he used it for anything. Steve's suddenly very sure he's overlooked something, though he isn't entirely sure what or in which way. Maybe he has been (is being) willfully stupid.

After a lot more squabbling, Steve returns home to a faintly sweet smell in the air he can't place.

"What did you have for breakfast?" He queries Buck as he sniffs. The Soldier is curled up with a book in bed. Steve notices, not for the first time, that the bigger man has been reading the same one about the rainforest off and on for over a month. 

"Nothing. I was waiting for you." Buck gives him a little smile; it touches his eyes but isn't quite big enough to make the skin around them crinkle. Had he ever done that before, except in response to Steve doing it first? Steve feels something in him warm a little. He's instantly suspicious of the feeling. 

_Maybe he is manipulating me._

Steve waits for Buck to oh so casually ask what Fury wanted, but he doesn't. 

It's not like what Nick had said was entirely off base or Steve hadn't thought about it a lot, especially at the beginning. It was absurd, all of it. The Soldier was designed to be a killing machine, an agent of destruction, a tool of global manipulation. Just because no one was pulling his strings - and Steve still couldn't imagine the amount of instruction that would have to go into making the Soldier behave in such a complex, nuanced way were he still able to be ordered around - didn't mean he was without an agenda. 

_Do you think it loves you? Wants you?_

The Soldier had never seen Steve before the day he'd first saved the smaller man's life. Certainly nothing like affection or lust (if he felt those things) had driven him to do that. _ Right?_

The taller man rises to change, pops his shirt off right before he strolls past Steve to his things. _Okay._ He had been openly shirtless in front of Steve before during the first time with the syringe but never after. The blonde presumed the Soldier had become aware nudity made him a bit...squidgy. Still, he can't help but note Buck's nipples are lavender, a slightly lighter shade than his…

_**Do you think it loves you? Wants you?**_ He hears an internal voice pantomiming Fury.

_Okay, this is ridiculous,_ Steve thinks.

He realizes Nick has gotten exactly what he wanted. In forty-five minutes he's shaken the seven plus months of trust Steve had built with the Soldier, made his subconscious start to not so subtly question what **exactly the fuck** he was doing in this situation.


	15. Waste not, want not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck recalls learning about his body and wonders about the bodies of others.

Many months before entering the vicinity of Claptrap, the Soldier freed a group of half-naked teenagers chained together under a highway overpass. Normally he gave the undeserving (as he had started to think of those not in need of being killed) a wide berth, ignored the need until they had passed. But it had been so long, _he was so hungry_. Could he feed and not kill?

A giant of a man ran from the scrub, machete in hand, to reclaim his chattel. One roundhouse kick to the temple knocked him flat. The Soldier restrained him with his own chains in the remnants of a nearby diner as the frightened kids scattered. Despite the man's size, he died not long after the Soldier fed. Stopping proved extremely difficult, the hunger shrieking at him to _devour_, the want whispering about blotting everything else out. 

He had not needed to practice self-control for a long time, the neural net eliminating the necessity. It was his first time in decades (though he had spent much of that frozen) being entirely in charge of his own actions. When he was given someone to drink in the facility, or on a mission, it went without saying that he would kill them. He would need to practice.

Defeating the next group that attacked him, he kept them restrained in a former apartment building. One of them was young, terrified, begging forgiveness as the Soldier - blood covering his face from slaughtering their leader - tied him to a chair in a small basement apartment. 

"Please," he begged, "I'm not like them. I just hooked up with them and they're, they're bad fucking people. I just...I played along."

They have a collection of identification cards and trinkets the young man states are trophies from those they have killed. His eyes mist up as he says he did not participate but did nothing to stop them when they murdered an elderly man the day before.

The Soldier had learned someone facing death would say anything, but he was not naive. The man was barely more than a boy, smooth faced, big green eyes, loose ringlets in his short dark hair. He had not been nearly as slight as the little mechanic, but not large either. Certain people would do horrible things to someone like that if they seemed weak.

"If you're gonna kill me, just... please make it quick," the young man had pleaded.

The Soldier decided to leave him until he could control himself. 

He killed others by accident, but was eventually able to stop before his victims passed out or right after. With practice, he learned to bite quick and deep instead of moving his head side to side or pulling back to tear at them. It caused less pain (a concern were he forced to feed on the undeserving) and no blood escaped the tight seal of his lips against their skin. 

He finally understood Zola saying "waste not, want not" when they had brought him, armless, back to the facility and the other doctors had asked if he should be terminated. When he had fed like an animal so much was lost.

Soon he could drink slowly, savoring it, healing them quick with a small bite to his tongue. They did not deserve his mercy, but there was no sense in wasting. He had learned purely by accident - when his blood had fallen into the knife wound of a man pinned below him some weeks before - that it could heal humans. Some part of him registered the irony even then, though he did not yet know that word - a weapon designed only to maim and kill who had the power to heal. 

The slower, careful feeding had unexpected side effects - he noticed his pulse going _into them_, spreading from his teeth, weakening their struggles. He experimented on the young man, willing it into him much harder than the others. He was surprised at how quickly his victim's body relaxed, even as he tried to fight back, his pleading going quiet. When questioning him later his captive admitted the pain had disappeared, that he had felt...tingly. It takes a lot of explanation for the Soldier to understand what that means. The young man is rewarded with a large meal and time out of his chair for cooperating. 

The next time the younger man made these soft little noises and the Soldier realized the throb was doing more than taking away muscle control or discomfort. _His captive liked it,_ liked it enough he could not quiet himself. The Soldier cannot help but groan in response. The feed is _better_ somehow.

The others never cooperate, cursing and threatening him on a daily basis, their noise irritating. He uses the pulsing to paralyze them but nothing else. 

Every time one of them is released from their bonds, they attack him or attempt to escape. He decides to kill them one by one, eventually discovering he could use his pulse to force circulation into their corpses, making them easier to finish draining than a body with no heartbeat. There was often no one around but the dead. If they were fresh enough, he could use them. 

The Soldier kept the younger man well fed, gave him regular time out of the chair, never hurt or threatened him; when he fed on him again, he had been less frightened, more yielding. The pleasure had been more intense for both of them, the Soldier's pulse pushing into him much faster and even harder, the helpless sounds coming out of his victim far louder than before. The Soldier pulled him off the ground, pressed him to his chest, the younger man's feet dangling as he drank. It felt so good, being against him, basking in his warmth, his captive's body so pliant. 

After, he realized how much he had _liked_ pleasing the younger man, enjoyed the way he moaned, also unable to quiet himself as he fed. Being bonded to him like that - lost in their mutual haze - had felt as natural as killing, but satisfying in a totally different way.

Still, the intimacy of it - especially the after effects - made the Soldier uncomfortable. He had a curiously hard time staying away, feeling an urge to be near the young man, to keep him safe, constantly returning to check his vitals. He could not bring himself to return the restraints. Maybe his captive would wander off. Maybe that was for the best. But when the Soldier returned from scavenging the following afternoon, he was still there. 

"I'm Luis," he had shyly offered. 

The Soldier said nothing in response. He had no name. Eventually when he was pressed he went to his old stand by, Winter Soldier 23. Unlike other humans, who called him Soldier if they had to address him, Luis had called him Winter. He was unsure why, but it pleased him.

He let himself feed on the younger man many more times, stayed in the building well after he had finished the others. _It_ always happened, growing stronger the more comfortable his captive became with him, the desire to be close after not even allowing the Soldier to leave the room. He would often sit in the chair Luis had once been tied to as he watched him sleep, eventually moving closer, much closer, as the effect intensified for both of them with repeated feeding. The Cling - as he started to call it in his mind - and the fact Luis never attempted to escape made it difficult for the Soldier to stay objective about the nature of their situation. 

One day, after a particularly long period wherein he did not approach the smaller man to feed, Luis had _offered_. He bent his head to the side, taunting the Soldier with the soft expanse of his neck, telling him that he _wanted_ him to, asking him for it, saying _please_. It had been so incredible that time, overwhelming to know Luis _craved it_ just as much as he did. The younger man bellowed helplessly with enjoyment as the Soldier rocked him back and forth to the rhythm of his pulse, drinking him slow, his blood so hot as it filled him, the Soldier's pleasure rising to an intense crescendo. 

He had woken in the small bed the younger man used, tangled together with him, feeling so satisfied and relaxed. He tried to move, but the thought of separating from Luis was like ground glass under his skin. This finally spurred his ultimate decision - he needed to leave this place, this person. What good could come of taking Luis with him? Could he even protect or provide for him if he did?

The asset was still hundreds of miles away, probably in the wasteland. He only briefly considered abandoning his pursuit of it. What then? The Soldier never touched him unless required (_or did he?_), barely spoke and Luis mostly returned the favor, though he certainly attempted conversation or commented more and more as their time together stretched on. He could not live in (_comfortable_) silence with Luis forever, the occasional feeding the only thing giving him purpose.

That was no life for the young man either, existing just to be his drug. Perhaps he was no better than a slaver for keeping him in the first place. Luis was undeserving. 

No, he had to continue. Others could be looking for the asset. Others who could use it to hurt people like Luis. Like the many others he had freed. 

He dropped the young man - still in a deep sleep - off in a nearby settlement later that night (as soon as he was able to bring himself to leave their warm little nest; no easy task). Mask and goggles firmly on, he made a deal with an old woman, leaving a bundle of supplies as trade for her taking in his... He had settled on the word _associate_. 

"Why's he out?" she queried, tapping Luis with her foot. 

The Soldier, his urge to protect still strong, had everything he could do not to break her leg.

"Low blood sugar," he responded - it was not a lie, just not exactly the truth. 

The Soldier kept his pulse in check with live victims after that, still using it to semi-paralyze them or take away the pain of his bite if he wanted, even to give them the pleasant, tingly sensation Luis described if they were worthy. He would not let it go into them further, even though he was skilled enough now he could sense he no longer needed their cooperation to do so, because he would not risk The Cling with anyone again. Leaving Luis had been like losing his arm, except there was no replacement, the absence permanent and irreparable. 

Steve paid lipservice to his understanding of Buck's need for blood, even helped him obtain it. It could be different if the glowing eyes and sharp teeth were directed at him, if he had any inkling of how much Buck thought about drinking him. The need had demanded or begged or whispered to him, depending on how recently he had fed, from the first moment he was near the little mechanic. Even at the dump, in the heat of the midday sun, or coated in engine filth, the blonde smelled delicious. 

But he was in control of the need, enough at least. The want was more seductive. 

The dreams and fantasies started quickly after coming to live in Claptrap. Pushing his pulse into Steve hard, pumping pleasure into the small frame, Steve's helpless little sounds filling his ears as they were sealed together in their mutual experience. The want would whisper to him that he could be careful, gentle, that Steve would _love it_, that after they could be wrapped together, warm and safe. He would not need to deny himself that as he had with Luis all save the last time.

The longer he spent with Steve the more he wanted to please him, to be close to him, and the feed was the only type of intimacy he understood. It made it so much harder to resist biting the little mechanic. His new friend had strict ideas about bodily autonomy. If he forced his teeth in him, even if he gave him enjoyment, Steve could be angry. Perhaps he would even feel violated by the effects of his pulse, by Buck's actions in the thrall of The Cling. It could shatter the hard-earned trust the smaller man had placed in him.

Now he has the book and is enlightened on dozens of other ways people can be intimate, can experience and share pleasure, ways that are very _human_. 

Did Steve perform _the act_? He had certainly never heard any sounds in the night and the little mechanic was rarely away from him. Did he avoid doing it because Buck was there? _Would he like the Soldier to do it for him?_

The book said the majority of people were attracted to someone of the opposite sex. Perhaps Steve would not want to be touched by another male. Buck feels a hot stab the text helps identify as jealousy at the thought Steve's time with Win could be sexual in nature. The Soldier reminds himself that would be Steve's choice. Win is kind, smart, brave. She makes Steve laugh and she can build things. He can only destroy. 

Even if the blonde liked to be touched by males, it did not mean he would want the Soldier. He was not normal. Not human. Not any shade of peach or brown or pink. And he had no experience pleasing someone that way even if he memorized the technical specifics. 

The book was explicit about body parts and how they could be stimulated, but it did very little to explain the rituals involved with sexuality between humans before the touching began. How did one offer such things? 

The Soldier would have to talk to the one person he knew that spoke about sex openly. He would need to get Clint alone.


	16. With friends like these...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve contemplates why he puts up with Clint.

"So me and your boy had a long chat last night while you were at Win's." Clint is spreading ancient peanut butter onto toasted homemade bread. He's already three Bloody Marys deep. Tater tots weren't the only thing Vic was making with Steve's spuds.

"Wuduyamean?" Steve asks around a mouthful of grits. The Soldier is helping Vic in the back, had said he _owed him in trade._ Clint, of course, had said _yeah, rough trade, heh heh,_ immediately after Buck had told them. 

"He showed up at my place with some beers, which explains the _trading_," Clint makes air quotes with his fingers, "going on in the back right now."

"The Soldier," Steve points towards the back of the pub, "left the house without me, which he never does, to come to the pub _on his own_, to promise Vic, who he has talked to like twice, _something or other_ that convinced him to hand over his beer, so he could bribe you _for_…?"

"As a master of the penile arts, my expert advice was needed." Clint makes a sweeping gesture with his bread.

"I cannot fucking roll my eyes hard enough. What did he actually want?" Steve snatches the toast from Clint's hand, takes a huge bite, gives it back. 

"**Asshole.** Soldierboy was all like _Uncle Clint, tell me about the birds and the bees_!" 

Natasha returns to the table, one Bloody Mary for herself and the second for Clint.

"Enabler," Clint half-whispers. He kisses her quick on the lips, then turns back to the blonde. "Yeah so, our weird, gray little boy has grown into a weird, gray big man and he has a whole lot of questions." 

Steve - lips pursed and brow furrowed in his usual "please make him stop" way - eyes the redhead.

"Oh no. Don't look at me. I can't even shut him up with a ball gag." She raises her left brow suggestively.

"Oh, baby." Clint moves like he's going to kiss her cheek but ends up making that stupid _nom nom nom_ sound like a parent pretending to eat up their baby while he moves his mouth against her neck. 

She shoves him off. "Focus, Barton. You can eat me later." Nat's already smoky voice goes extra sultry. She has that down to a science. 

Steve had never been jealous of their relationship with each other - he was never interested in either of them "like that" - but he's always been envious of the ease with which they flirt and show each other physical affection. Steve considers that he has precisely zero game and most likely if someone tried to nom-nom him he'd break their jaw. 

God knows he'd slugged the archer more than once for getting touchy. He has a face like a cinderblock though - Steve's knuckles ache with the memory. The first time they met, after Nat booted his pistol, Fury had motioned to Clint. He had held up his hands placatingly as he stepped towards Steve.

"We just need to talk, little fella. Since you so obviously didn't learn anything from the ass whoopin' someone gave you earlier, I'd rather not have to gift you a second." 

Steve, half his face dark purple and his blood-crusted lips swollen, just put up both skinny arms, balling up his slightly-too-big-for-his-body fists.

"Man, you think you got some big jangly stones on you," Clint had chuckled, getting into a grappling stance. "Okay junior, let's dance."

Steve jolted forward on his right foot, kicked Clint, hard and quick, right between the legs with his left. 

"Maybe you should worry more about your own balls and less about mine," Steve spat at him.

The archer had tackled him as soon he could stand fully upright again. The blonde was flailing, scratching, biting, then Fury knocked him cold with the butt of his rifle. 

Steve always remembered when he woke up, the first thing he heard was Clint telling Fury off. "You didn't need to do that! He's just a fucking kid."

"Yeah, so," Clint continues, pulling Steve back mentally to the breakfast table, "he tells me he's been, uh, _dancing solo_," Clint makes a slightly open fist that he pumps up and down, "and now he wants to know how you go about asking someone else to tango."

"That's..." Steve stops, deep line forming just above the bridge of his nose, mouth quirking up on one side in something that is definitely not a smile. "Wait, he's been doing what?" 

"He's flogging the dolphin. Whipping the bologna pony. Spanking the monkey…" Clint makes a lewd gesture with the celery from his already half-empty new drink.

"Choking the weasel," Nat chimes in.

"Stroking the one-eyed pudding flinger," Clint replies.

"**I fucking get what he means!**" Steve practically yells, people turning to look at them. "But he's not...He does _not_ do that," Steve follows in a too-loud whisper. He sounds irritated, incredulous and just a tiny bit unsure.

"Oh he has and he does. Like a bunch." The archer takes a huge, loud bite of the stalk in his hand. "He came ovah," he says with his mouth full, "tuh teww me, how heez bin _comin aww ovah_ yer howse."

Steve looks at Nat, who just shrugs. "I was _not_ around for this. I have hobbies."

"And when is this _hauntingly described_ debauchery supposedly taking place? Considering he's barely out of my sight ten minutes a day." Steve crosses his arms in challenge. 

_Please don't say when I'm asleep. Please don't say when I'm asleep. Please don't say- _

"Uh duh, he has free time every week when you're at your little card games." Clint tilts back the drink, finishes it in a few hard swigs. 

Steve just stares at the bigger man for a long moment, then laughs.

"Okay, dude. Very funny. You almost got me, you weird, sick old man." He makes double finger guns at Clint. 

"Okay, fine, you don't believe me? I'll bet you." Clint takes his best goggles out of his bag, smacks them down loudly on the table. "Also I'm only like ten years older than you, dick." 

"More like fifteen," Natasha chimes in. 

"Now that you've possibly broken them with your ham hands, I'm not really sure I wanna bother." The blonde pokes the goggles with one long, bony finger. 

"Cuz you think there's a chance that I'm right, and you're a little chickenshit." Clint is grinning from ear-to-ear, and Steve desperately wants to hit him yet again.

"And how exactly do you propose I spy on a highly trained super soldier?" He means it sarcastically, but Clint has clearly thought it out.

"The next time you're heading out for the night, and he's staying in, you make sure your curtains are cracked just enough that you can see in. Then you go for a walk, sneak back ten or fifteen later, kneel down in front of the window and see what he's up to." 

"He would absolutely see me lurking outside," the blonde retorts.

_Oh what big eyes you have._

"In the dark?" Nat queries.

"Yeah." Steve has stopped pulling as many punches with the other scavengers about what Buck can do - they've witnessed during runs some of the unexplainable feats the Soldier is capable of. He hopes eventually Buck won't have to hide much or any of what he is with their community.

"With the light on inside, all he'll see is the reflection of the room," Clint counters.

"He'll hear me." 

_ Oh what big ears you have._

"Take your shoes off a ways out. Fuck, you only weigh like ninety pounds."

Steve gives him the finger. 

"And if he catches me, spying on him reading the same book about the Amazon for the hundredth time, and he's super pissed?" 

_Oh what big teeth you have._

"Then you'll win the bet and I'll take the blame, smooth things over." The archer slides the goggles slowly off the table. They are incredibly high-tech, once a very expensive piece of equipment that Barton used to hunt at night. 

"Fine, fine. But only because I know you're wrong." 

"And if I'm right..." Clint starts.

"Make it my first born," the blonde interjects, smiling wryly. 

"I wanna know the _deets_." The archer leans in conspiratorially.

"What _deets_?" The smaller man copies Clint's stupid finger quotes.

"Length, girth. Is it gray? Does he growl? Does he just stand in a corner with that blank look on his face? Does he say your name while he does it?" 

"You're a very disturbed man." Steve shakes his head.

"He's very open minded for a heterosexual male," the redhead chimes in.

"She's right. I even do butt stuff. But what I really want to know is how does a vampire - "

"For the thousandth time, he's not a vampire." It's not technically a lie, it's just not the whole truth. 

"How does a vampire wank and is his dick bigger than mine. That's it! Not so much to ask." 

"You married this person." Steve looks at Nat whilst pointing at Clint.

"I don't actually believe in marriage and since there's no government anymore it's not legally binding anyway. But he was all whiny about it. He wouldn't agree to let me peg him until I said yes." 

"What does it mean to peg someone?" The Soldier's quiet voice drifts from beside them and they all jump.

Clint opens his mouth.

"NOPE! Nope, we're not having that conversation right now," Steve cuts him off. 

The first conversation Steve had (if you can can call it that when one person is just screaming) after coming to was with Clint. Clint carefully cleaned the split in his forehead, holding Steve's chin with one hand to keep his head still while he thrashed against the cuffs they had him hooked to the truck wall with. His legs had restraints as well and he couldn't get enough motion to kick. 

Clint tried to gentle him down, to explain about the community, that if he hadn't pulled the gun everything would have been fine. Steve was frantic. Had he really gotten himself back into this sort of situation in only one day? The others were outside somewhere, close enough that he could hear them talking but not close enough to make out all of what they were saying. 

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" he screamed again and again until he was hoarse. 

"**Look kid!**" Clint finally yelled back, dropping onto his haunches. Steve momentarily went quiet, ready for threats or a backhand. "I don't know what that fuck did to you but I can guess." The bigger man took an arrow from his quiver, held it up so Steve could see its length. "I'm as straight as one of these, so you got nothing to worry about."

"They all are until they're not," Steve retorted. 

"You are gonna go home with us and everything is gonna be fine. Eventually you're gonna forget all about those animals. You're only gonna fuck whoever you wanna fuck and if anyone messes with you, anyone, they'll answer to me."

Steve had laughed in his face at the time, unsure if it was some sort of weird game to butter him up or if the guy was really just that naive. To think Steve setting up shop in their silly little junktown would make it like the last several years of abject horror never happened.

On their second scavenging run after Steve came to Claptrap, he had been caught unaware in a high school science lab by two guys. He'd managed to smash a beaker and stab the first one in the neck, when their less than pure intentions came to light, but the second one was huge. The blonde walloped him upside the head with a super thick textbook; it only seemed to piss him off. He slugged Steve in the gut, hard, winding him. 

In a few brief moments he had Steve's arm twisted painfully behind his back and the blonde's chest shoved against a long, high worktable. Steve thrashed and screamed at the top of his lungs, the rage whiting out his vision almost as much as the pain, but it was not much use against the huge bruiser. He picked Steve up by his twisted arm and the waistband of his pants and put him over the counter as his legs kicked uselessly against the man's own. 

His attacker was slowed trying to get Steve's suspenders off since he had a jacket on over the shoulder straps. He fiddled with the tiny buttons that connected them to the back of the blonde's pants, telling Steve the whole time what he was going to do to him, and how he planned to keep him after for "a few more rounds." The blonde got a good shot to the man's temple with his pointy elbow when he leaned close to talk in Steve's ear. The giant pushed his other arm so high up his back he felt like he was going to pass out.

There was a whisper quiet sound like _schick_ behind him. The grip on him loosened, released, then the huge man was stumbling back, falling with a crash, arms and legs scattering the metal-legged stools around him. Steve slid back to his feet, whipped around to see the guy on the floor, clutching at the arrow in his neck. Clint is suddenly there, yanking it out while his boot is on the man's chest, bow in his other hand. 

"You okay?" Clint tried to sound calm, like it was no big deal, but his face said otherwise. Steve, wide eyed, just nodded.

The man on the floor was gurgle-screaming, spraying blood from the puncture (_ jugular,_ Steve thought absently). He clutched at it with one huge hand, the other flailing to try to grab the blonde's pantleg. What followed was the one and only time he saw Clint Barton completely lose his cool on a run.

The archer stomped on the man's outstretched arm, then on his face, again and again and again, screaming down at the dying man. Some of it was unintelligible but there was a lot of "you motherfucker," and "I'll fucking kill you" and "you sick fuck" repeated. He brought his black boot down on the man's skull until it was just pieces, brains falling in small clumps from the sole each time he lifted his foot. 

Whenever he's really exasperated with Clint, whenever he really, really wants to tell him off hard or embarrass him in front of everyone or kick him out of the house, he reminds himself of that moment. More so what the archer had done (and not done) after. Clint didn't tell anyone what he had seen almost happen, just gave a chuckle, said "little scrapper got one of them" and acted like there was nothing more to report.


	17. Sharing is caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Solider deviates from his mission.

Waking from cryofreeze the last time was similar to when he had first gained consciousness in the facility, after being made into this thing. The Soldier is confused, in agony, his mind a jumbled mess, his body so cold. A trembling hand raised to his head feels sharp objects embedded there. It comes away coated in blood that is pitch black.

The Soldier smells the intruders - fresh and stale blood, gun powder, boot leather - before he hears them. His ears are still ringing from the blast, from the damage to his skull. Memories splinter and reform into a sickening whirl, leaving him to act on emotion and instinct. 

He rips at the things buried in him, thrashes at the debris pinning him inside the busted cryotube. They are near now, footsteps and excited voices around the corner. Muddled memories return of other boots down this hallway, coming to take him from the emptiness of his frozen sleep and push fresh horrors into his mind, into his body.

The metal arm takes him by surprise at first, the pain of the procedure rushing back to him, only increasing his panic. He can see them long before they can see him in the semi-darkness. The need is screaming, all of his reserves used on healing his body. He leaps on one, legs around their waist and arms around their shoulders, burying his face in their neck, ripping and slurping. Their companion starts to read the words,_ Zola's words._

The want speaks, stirring other memories. _Something is not right. Something is not right. Make it stop._

The woman is done reading the words by the time he releases the corpse of her partner. She smiles triumphantly, orders him to stand. He does, looks at her for a long moment, as she gives him commands. There is just time to notice the necklace made of human ears and bones around her neck before he flies at her, rips her head from her body. What is left of the one on the floor is also decorated in human parts, sections of his jacket made of tattooed skin. 

There are others. He hears their voices and footsteps from somewhere above yet far away, vaguely aware that he is underground, that they have somehow breached this hidden place from the surface.

More approach. He cripples one with a swift blow to the sternum from his metal fist as a second buries a knife in his chest. The Soldier only takes the briefest second to glance down at it, impaled directly in his heart, before he leaps at the person and buries his teeth in them, shaking his head from side to side like a rabid dog, blood flying in every direction. **More, more, more!** the need screams inside him; others are already beating him with clubs and pipes as he feeds. He barely notices, enraptured. 

He is suddenly on his feet, grabbing one with both hands, impaling them on the twisted rebar hanging down from the damaged ceiling. Their hot blood raining down on his face is incredible - he stands there, head tilted back, mouth open. There is a shocked silence among the remaining attackers and he is suddenly very aware of them surrounding him. 

The Soldier does not have words to explain what happens next, but it is as if some sort of switch flips inside him. He crushes an attacker's windpipe with a high kick, his flesh fist flying out in the opposite direction to break the jaw of another. His metal hand clutches the throat of a man, hoists him up off the floor, breaks his neck, hurdles him into a woman so hard she bounces off the wall, skull fractured. He finally thinks to pull the blade from his chest, then he's stabbing and slashing with a fluid, effortless grace. 

He hears singing in the distant recesses of his mind. _Ashes, ashes. They all fall down_. 

There are more scents wafting from above, voices. There are so many. The need chimes back in, tells him to run at them, to rip and slash and bathe in them. The want reminds him of his years in captivity, tells him to run. His training agrees - there are too many and _they have fire._ He loots the bodies, the parts of the facility he can still access, then finds an alternate route to escape so that he can bypass the ones coming down from above. 

At a safe distance, he climbs a small knoll to look back. There is a smoking crater in the ground. His eyesight is excellent, but at this distance he still needs to use the binocular vision setting of the goggles. Dozens of warriors, mostly men but women as well, many in some combination of body armor, leather and human parts, all heavily armed. Their leader wears a hard composite mask that covers his head and face, white paint streaked on the front. It resembles a skull. 

"FIND IT! FIND IT!!!" he rages. There's a white X crudely swiped across the front of his body armor.

This was the first time he became conscious of being called _it_. The Soldier has a stab of dislike for the term immediately. There is a familiar pull in his head - the neural net is not completely non-operational. The asset is signaling him. With no other direction to take, he stands and runs into the night, heeding its call. 

When he is far enough away from those who wish to capture him, he stops to review the documents taken from the facility. The notes, which cover everything done to him since the initial experiment, only list him as "cadaver #23." He destroys them. 

The Soldier slaughtered everyone he fed on without thought upon first entering the ravaged remains of human civilization. They had all tried to murder or capture him - eager to take his weapons and his arm, not understanding it was useless if removed from him. He did, however, quickly form certain compunctions about who he attacked. 

It became clear that the little he had known of how things operated outside of the facilities no longer applied. This world was broken, in chaos. He crossed people being attacked, being used, being held captive, being _eaten_. He did not yet remember a large portion of what happened to him since Zola had woken him all those years ago, but he could recall what it felt like to be restrained, commanded, helpless. 

_Unacceptable,_ he had thought simply before murdering his first slaver (squeezing the man's head between his hands until it burst) and freeing those he held. He stared at them, staring at him, as he licked the blood from his fingers before simply walking away.

The Soldier did not have any sense of ethics at this juncture, no code or higher purpose guiding him save his journey to the asset. He would simply see something inflicted on someone else that reminded him of what was done to him and it would fill him with rage, disgust - he would have to act. Sometimes those he freed would ask who he was.

"Winter Soldier 23," he would respond. He was still conditioned to present title to his previous handlers. He did not yet realize these civilians wanted a name, something that identified him as a person rather than a weapon. 

Occasionally he would encounter other free people wandering the shattered world who showed no ill intent towards him; they gave him a wide berth and he ignored the need as it begged him to take them, knowing he would find someone deserving shortly. 

By the second month on the road, still heading towards the asset, he had recovered many of his memories from the facilities and missions. There are blank spots, few and far between, and other sections that are vague or disjointed, but overall the majority comes back with painful clarity.

He frees a woman and two children along the road, considers the latter's smallness; he is vaguely aware that they will grow into larger people. _Adults._ This body would have been a child once, but he does not remember ever not being the size he is now. It suddenly fits together. This body was a cadaver - _a dead man as the guard had called him_ \- before being woken in the first facility. Whoever was in this body when it was a child was gone, replaced with whatever he was.

The woman was standing between him and the children now, her posture defensive, yelling at him to stay away. He realizes he has been staring for some time, blood all over him. The Soldier leaves her the supplies and weapons of the man and woman who had been holding them (the cannibals are just blood spatter and parts in the dust now) along with some of his food. He lines it all up silently in the road while the woman continues to keep her children pressed behind her. For the first time he feels the indescribable sinking in his chest from how another person looks at him, suddenly very aware that he is a monster. 

The Soldier finds the asset months later, in a large barn not far into the edge of the waste. It appears to have fallen through the roof from above. He has long enough to contemplate how he will move it - he can lift it, but it is awkward and cumbersome - when he hears voices from outside. There is a small alcove at the end of a row of enclosed horse stalls where tools were stored. He retreats there, into darkness, lays in wait. 

There is a tall man, dark skinned, bald. He recognizes him, vaguely. From the facility? Not a guard. Not a doctor. It is unclear. Perhaps from a mission. His firearm is large, high-tech. A former special operative of some kind?

The red-headed woman with him has two pistols and an electro-shock disc launcher on each wrist. This weapon had been used on him before - it will not paralyze him as it would a human, but he recalls the intense pain it caused, the burns taking longer to heal than his other injuries. It will slow him.

More enter, with others outside. He hears the ones he cannot see. The ones he can are all armed, some of them clearly ex special ops from their uniforms and automatic weapons. The panic flares in him, the want and need in agreement he will have to fight his way free at any cost before he can let them trap him. 

"Holy shit, it's big," he hears a deep voice say. 

When the blonde it belongs to comes into view he is not at all what the Soldier expects. Nearly a foot shorter than him and probably a bit younger (though of course the Soldier's age was relative). The man is slender, armed with an ancient rifle. Definitely a civilian from his clothes. He has an innocent face but eyes that are unsettlingly aware and worry lines on his forehead. 

"That's what she said!" A man with a quiver of arrows on his back comes to stand beside the small man. A bit taller, far more muscular, bow in hand. The shorter man rolls his eyes, but begrudgingly smiles. It is different from the interactions he normally sees within groups of the deserving.

There are many other non-military. Even an old woman with a hunting rifle. No one wears human trophies - these are not cannibals. Nor do they carry the scattershot of homemade weapons common to marauders. They look relatively clean, well-fed. Perhaps from a settlement. He had run across places before with ex-Army or Marines holding together a community. He reminds himself not all military are like the men in the facility. 

A few keep watch while the rest eat, talking and laughing, in a circle on the ground. The blonde heads in his direction and the Soldier freezes. He smells amazing and the bigger man has a brief war with the need as it demands he pull the smaller man into the dark. The blonde goes behind a wagon, pushes the suspenders from his shoulders (small, but a bit wide for his proportions), unzips, starts to urinate into the straw there. 

The Soldier can see his lower back, narrow hips and the top of his buttocks where his too-large pants are slightly down. He is covered in scars. Burns, cuts, what appear to be the gouges of fingernails. It is clear they travel further under his clothes in both directions. He has never seen a human so marked.

_Amazing one so small could endure such torment._ He remembers his own punishment in the facility and feels a stab of pity. He would like to say he bears no such marks as reminder of his suffering, but the reactions of others to his appearance tells a different story. 

The blonde puts himself away, tucks his shirt back in, pulls up the suspenders and turns to go. He stops. Stares into the pitch black of the Soldier's hiding place. He is sure he has not made a sound, his eyes hidden behind the dark goggle lenses, yet the small man seems to know he is being watched. The blonde takes a screw from his pocket, throws it into the right side of the cubby. The Soldier silently dodges it and it hits the back wall with a thunk. He takes out another, does the same but aiming to the left. The Soldier quickly side-steps it. It strikes home again. 

_Clever._

"Quit fucking off or you're not getting any chocolate," the archer calls to the blonde. He slowly retreats back to the group. The Soldier watches them all split one large bar, each snapping off a small square before passing it. Sharing is not something the deserving do. 

He decides to let them take the asset. They have transportation, a place to house it. Easier to let them do the work and follow at a distance. If their custody can be trusted, he can guard the settlement, thus guarding the asset. 

A brief flash of recognition is all that keeps him from breaking the smaller man's neck - and killing his attacking companion in the throes of the Soldier's confusion and thirst - months later in the dunes by the yard. He puts together precisely why he recognizes the little blonde after they flee, when he sees the manner in which he was removed from the sandpit.

_Clever_.

Curiosity had driven him to follow. He had no idea where it would lead.


	18. Ballroom Blitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's night turns to shit.

Six days after their uncomfortable breakfast conversation, the mechanic asks Clint how he will know if Steve sees anything when he spies on the Soldier. Clint simply replies that the blonde is terrible at lying - except perhaps to himself. The smaller man is less than amused. No amount of self-deception can make him forget what he witnesses when he sneaks back to his shanty fifteen minutes after saying he was going to Win's. 

He had left the curtains open a crack, just like Barton had suggested, and the light was on inside, just like Clint guessed it would be. Steve scans the room slowly from the left, not seeing any sign of him. He fully expected Buck to be sitting on the bed reading, or at the table taking apart something. Even though he didn't have any ammunition, he still frequently disassembled and cleaned his guns. Steve had started showing him how to do the same with engine parts, ironically to put his hands to better use.

For a minute, he considers the Soldier has gone to see Vic or Clint again. But then he hears it, the breathy little noises from the back right corner. He moves closer to the glass, angling his head to see that dimly lit part of the interior. Even when he gave vague consideration to the idea that Clint could be telling the truth, he never imagined he'd see this. 

Buck isn't in fact pounding off or pulling his pud or whatever childish euphamism one wanted to use for the act of stroking one's penis. The Soldier is completely naked, down on the floor, his body forming a ninety degree angle. The lower half of his legs run behind him, the tops of his feet and shins pressed to the floor, soles and calves pointed to the ceiling. The rest of his body is raised up on his knees, the front of his thighs, belly and chest forming an almost straight line save the shape of his muscles and his full erection. There is a large, ragged towel stretched out in front of him (_well that's considerate_, Steve thinks absently).

He's not in fact touching his cock - now more deep gray-purple in certain parts - at all. The Soldier has his silver arm bent back behind him. Two ribbed metal fingers, glistening with something slick, slide in and out of him. Buck's breathing slow but hard, a little groan coming out on each exhale. Steve clutches the window frame, frozen and wide-eyed. Buck turns his hand ever so slightly. It must change the angle enough for his fingertips to rub over the sensitive spot inside him even better. His sounds get louder, closer together as his breathing speeds up, more high-pitched as his chin tilts up and he arches back. _Unh, unh, unh..._

_Holy fuck,_ is Steve's most eloquent thought. 

The noises quiet for a brief second. 

"S-Steve…" Buck practically whimpers.

_Holy fuck!_

_Holy fuck holyfuck holyfuckholyfuck**holyfuck!**_

Steve stands on legs like gelatin, backs slowly up about twenty feet, then turns and runs, scooping up his boots as he passes them. He finds Clint at the pub, like always, slides silently onto the stool next to him at the bar. When the bigger man turns to look at Steve, the blonde's face is shell-shocked.

Steve raises a finger, signaling Vic. He was always doing odd jobs for the barman, like replacing window panes and figuring out ways to mould more drinking glasses, and had developed quite a credit stash since he almost never drank. Luckily he hoarded them in a cargo pocket on his coat. 

"Whatever's strongest and make it a double." 

The blonde throws back the requested liquor in a single gulp, returning the glass to the bar a bit too loud. "Another, please."

"Told you," the archer says simply, sipping his beer. 

"Fuck you, Clint. Fuck you _so hard_." He sounds like he just watched an old woman try to dry her dog in the microwave. 

"_So_?" Barton queries. 

Vic places a mixed drink in front of Steve. "Have this instead, lightweight. On the house."

Steve clutches it with both hands as he sips, looking like a kid with chocolate milk. 

"He was...bigger end of average. Or smaller end of big. I don't know! He was definitely not growling, and he wasn't standing, and he...said my name. _He said my fucking name_!" 

"_Woooah..._" Clint puts his empty glass down, motions Vic for another, pays him with one of Steve's tokens. 

The archer swivels towards the mechanic on his stool. Steve turns his head towards the taller man - Clint looks pensive, like he'll say something thoughtful.

"But what color was it?" He raises both eyebrows. 

"Ohmygodfuckyou!" Steve snatches his drink back up, takes a large swallow. 

"I picture it super black and and all ridgy, like a mutant horse cock." 

"You are a terrible _bastard_ and I don't know how I let you talk me into this." He immediately glugs his drink down, pays for another. Vic starts to say something but Steve waves him off. 

"This is great news though, right?" Clint smiles.

"What? How? Why?" He immediately starts drinking the new one. 

"Who, when, where," Clint answers. "No but really, now you know your little crush isn't unrequited."

"Excuse me, my _what?!_ I… not. I don't… I'm not interested in him like that." After a brief pause, Steve snatches Clint's beer from him, as if to make up for his uncharacteristic lack of a snappy comeback.

"You think you're so _slick_. I see the way you moon over him and check him out when he's got tight clothes on. Which is, like, always because he's a beast. It's nothing to be ashamed of that you want to bang a beefy dude." Clint hails Vic down again.

"I've literally never hidden that I'm attracted to women and men. That's not remotely the point!" He slams the beer back in front of Clint.

"I meant you still wanting sex with dudes is nothing to be ashamed of." Clint's voice goes softer, trying to tread lightly around this particular subject. "You doing some dudes doesn't mean you want every dude."

"Another one of these, please." Steve gestures to his empty drink with one hand, pushes a token forward as Vic comes over. The barman sighs and shrugs, leaves to make it. 

"I've had sex since…I got here. I've done stuff with **dudes** here..." 

"Yeahyeah you and Win did it like once and you messed around with Sam and Carol a million years ago." Clint takes a swig of his drink.

"The fuck, Barton? Nosey much?" 

Steve glares at him as Vic puts a new mixed drink down, carefully avoiding eye contact with the angry blonde.

"This place is tiny and everyone talks. And hears everyone else...ya know." He makes a loose fist with one hand, jams the pointer finger of his other hand into it repeatedly. "We heard _Greta one time!"_

"So I'm not a fucking cassenova like you when you were single. Sue me." Steve hoists his new beverage, takes a long drink. 

"You're practically a fucking monk. He wants to do it. You want to do it. Bingo bongo. If you're a-okay, _like you say,_ what's the problem?" The taller man slugs his beer. 

"He doesn't understand what _doing it_ even means. He doesn't get that kinda stuff."

"Uhh he clearly does!" Clint makes a pumping gesture near his crotch.

"He wasn't… He wasn't doing _that_." Steve doesn't know why he says it, regrets it immediately. 

"Was he like… fucking a Vaseline filled sandwich bag between the mattress and bedframe?" 

"That's..._weirdly specific_." Steve turns to eye him.

"Using both his feet to stroke it?" 

"_That's a thing people do to themselves?_" 

"Oh my God. Was it butt stuff?" Clint puts his beer down a little too fast and a lot too loud. He takes Steve's silence as an answer. "It was butt stuff! _Good for him._ I told him butt stuff is pretty awesome."

"Clint, why? Just why?!" 

Vic winces at the other end of the bar as Steve's drink also bangs down. 

"_What?!_ This is like, ideal. He can just bottom and things will be more..." Clint takes a really long pause, "comfortable for you." 

A tiny voice in the back of Steve's head congratulates Clint on saying "bottom" instead of something offensive the mechanic would expect the archer to say like "be the girl" or "bite the pillow."

"I'm not saying that I want to do stuff like that with him, but even if I did, I couldn't, because that would be taking advantage." Steve snatches his drink back up, takes a long pull.

"Umm, pretty sure taking advantage of him is exactly what he wants you to do." The archer finishes his beer, slides the empty glass past Steve to Vic.

"He has the emotional IQ of a twelve year old." The blonde stares into his beverage. 

"I mean… so do I. And I'm married." Clint catches the refill Vic slides to him.

"It's not the same! He asked me one day if we were _more than friends_ and I went into full panic mode until I realized he had no idea what that actually meant. He thought it was just like, friendship version 2.0 and was all eager to play on advanced mode." 

"Yeah, because he wants to be your _special friend_ that you like more than everyone else."

_The goddamn finger quotes again._

"Yeah, like a little kid." Steve finishes his drink. 

"Like someone who doesn't have the words to describe having a crush on someone. Who maybe doesn't know what it means when you want to be around someone all the time and have them like you best and have them do stuff to your butt." Clint is doing his best fatherly wisdom voice. He puts a hand on Steve's shoulder but the blonde immediately jerks away from him. 

"That right there is _exactly_ what I was talking about earlier." Clint's voice suddenly goes serious.

"What? I just don't like that!" Steve spits back. 

"_Oh but you're so well adjusted and nothing's wrong_. Which is why one of your _best friends_ can't even put his hand on your arm without you trying to rip it off." Clint tilts his beer back. 

"**You're not my friend!** You're a huge fucking pain in my ass!" 

"Watch what you say, kid!" Clint points his finger at the blonde.

"It's called liking personal space! It's perfectly normal!" 

"_That._ That is why you can't admit that you like him or he likes you or that you want to make sex on each other. Because you can't admit to yourself how much what happened before is still effecting you." Clint turns towards him again on the stool. "You won't talk about it. You dance around it when I do. It's not healthy."

"Oh **thank you, Dr. Barton**. Do you accept my insurance or should I use a credit card?" Steve swivels towards the archer, one fist clenched in his lap. 

"I'm serious, Stevie." 

"Don't **fucking** call me that!" Steve yells up at Clint as he finishes his beer. 

The bigger man sets the glass down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he stares the smaller man down. Clint leans forward until he's inches from Steve's face. 

"Stevie. Stevie. **Stevie**." He grits out through clenched teeth. 

Steve stares back at him for a long moment, enough time for Clint to see something bubble up in the mechanic's face that tells him he has made a grievous mistake. The blonde is on him in an instant, knocking him back off the bar stool onto the wooden floor, toppling over with him. He has a thigh on either side of Clint's stomach, pummeling at the other man with his fists - left, right, left, right - as the archer tries to shield his face with his forearms. The archer thinks, not for the first time, _The little shit can throw a punch._

Clint bends his legs up, grips either side of Steve's narrow waist with his calves, flips the blonde on his back as he rolls to straddle the smaller man, holding himself up on his knees to not crush him. The bigger man puts his hands up in front of him, palms facing out. 

"Peace, Steve! I don't wanna hurt you." 

Clint barely has time to squeeze the words out before catching a left-hook to the eye. He grabs the blonde's skinny wrists and yells "Calm! Down!" into his face.

Steve knees him in the balls, scrambles backwards away from him, is up on his unstable feet fairly quick. The room tilts a little, the alcohol suddenly hitting him much harder, but he shakes his head, puts his dukes up. 

Clint slowly gets to his feet, holding himself, staggers a bit before finding his footing. Everyone is staring, and it isn't because of his biceps. 

"I think the patient needs to act out some previous trauma. You want a replay? You'll get one," the archer says, now fully upright. 

Clint runs at Steve, tackles him onto a table. Steve bites him on the shoulder, making the bigger man wail. He stands half up, socks the kid one in the face. _Fuck, is their lead in his cheekbones?_ He's in the middle of pulling back to fire off another - Steve already digging his nails into the tender meat at the back of Clint's other arm and grasping a glass with his other hand to smash into the bigger man's face - when a strangely firm hand grabs the archer's wrist. He turns to see the Soldier, eyes glowing brightly, standing beside him.

"Uh, hey big fella this isn't what it loooooooooooooo!" 

A simple movement of the metal arm hurdles Clint into the nearest wall. He barely has time to get on his hands and knees before the Soldier is on him, grabbing him by the throat. He hoists the archer several feet off the floor. 

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Steve runs to him, grabs his flesh arm. "Please, please stop!" The Soldier looks at his face, already reddening from the blow, a small cut their sluggishly bleeding, then back at Clint. He's pulling at the Soldier's silver fingers as his face turns beet red, heels thumping uselessly into the wall. 

"He hurt you," Buck says, voice low and even. There's something beneath it though, something dark and terrifying. You could hear a pin drop in the bar behind them. 

"It's my fault. _I started it._ Now let him go!" Steve says urgently. The Soldier seems to ignore him. Clint's face is turning maroon. "Please, Buck!" the blonde pleads. 

The Soldier simply releases Clint and he drops to his feet, legs almost going out beneath him as he doubles over, knees bent, choking and gasping. The Soldier lords over him, points a finger in his face. 

"Do _not_ touch him again." His tone is cold, volume ever so slightly elevated. Compared to his usual voice, he may as well be yelling. 

"Let's go. Please. Let's go!" Steve herds the Soldier out of the pub, stopping only briefly to meet eyes with Clint as he coughs.


	19. Let's play a game.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury gets a surprise visitor.

Fury is less than pleased to see Clint and the Winter Soldier waiting outside the small construction site trailer that functions as his office. It's well before anyone, save those on guard duty, are awake. He hasn't even unlocked the door to let himself in yet. 

"What shit sandwich have you come to feed me, Barton? This community is entirely too devoid of coffee for you to be bothering me at this hour." His gaze runs slowly over both of his uninvited visitors. 

"My buddy here has a request and I think you should hear him out," Clint offers, sounding pretty exhausted himself.

"Psssssh." Fury crosses his arms. "He speak for you now?" Nick juts his chin at the Soldier.

"Negotiations sometimes require a third party familiar with both sides," it quietly responds. 

"_Cut the bullshit._ If you're half as smart as an actual person, you know Clint is less than useful at making compelling arguments about _anything_." Fury's good eye flares then narrows. 

"I believed you would feel less threatened if I did not come alone," the Soldier calmly responds. 

"You do that to his face?" The older man gestures at the archer, his black eye nearly swollen shut. 

"I did not strike him. I only strangled him briefly. It was a misunderstanding. I have apologized," the Soldier says calmly. 

"It's been thirty-six hours since I took this hit. I'm sure you knew all about it in twenty minutes." Barton folds his own arms in a blatantly mocking way. 

"That kid is gonna be the death of us all. Why in hell did I let you talk me into bringing him here?" 

The archer looks at his feet, sighs, shakes his head, before returning eye contact to Fury. "Keep tellin' yourself it was all my idea." 

The truth was, Nick had an intense love-hate relationship with Steve that almost bordered on paternalistic. He deeply respected the kid, found him bright and with almost too much gumption. Fury also had to hand it to someone who never backed down from a fight when they were so lacking in physical size or prowess. Natasha was all of 5'3", but she was highly trained, honed by years in the field.  
The blonde was just some scrawny nobody.

Nick was also endlessly irritated with him. Arguing and sarcasm were their version of fishing trips and playing catch. Steve could never leave well enough alone, never fall in line, always questioning, always with some new idea that would infuriatingly work after everyone said he was insane. He had such an uncanny knack for seeing through Fury's half-truths. The older man's bread and butter had been secrecy and manipulation for far too long to appreciate it. 

_You want something from him, don't you?_ Steve's voice echoes in his head. 

When they'd met, the blonde was barely in his twenties and practically feral, with half his face smashed in. Nick couldn't fathom how he'd survived, particularly with Brock. He guessed it was the Brooklyn in the kid - not the privileged, hipster kind but the old school kind. Descendents of immigrants who came here with nothing, people who fought and clawed to stay in their city no matter what tried to push them out. 

Steve almost never talked about his mother, but Nick had gleaned that her people came from Ireland during the famine, they'd settled in the city after crossing Ellis Island like so many others and had never left. Generations of cyclical poverty later, his mother was still holding multiple jobs to get by when everything had went to shit. The kid had variously mentioned her working at a laundry, as a seamstress and as a nurse's aide. Which made sense why the blonde could sew or get out a bloodstain just as well as he could bandage a wound.

Nick could make excellent ribs but outside of that his skill-set was largely in people management. Sometimes that meant killing them. But often it meant moving them around like pieces on a chessboard. Fury still had lingering guilt for the last thing he'd said at the gate that night the Soldier arrived, but he needed Steve to get close without getting too close and old habits die hard. 

Telling the blonde befriending the Soldier was a stupid idea would make him want to do it even more. Giving just enough back story to make _it_ sound wronged and in need of a champion would get the kid's hackles up. But reminding him he could get abused if he wasn't careful might help him keep at least some of his wits about him. Still, the pained look on Steve's face made him regret his actions for the briefest moment. 

The kid and Win had endeared themselves to a number of key players in the junktown; their opinions held weight, especially after the wall went up, the irrigation system, the wind turbines (small though they were without adequate equipment to build or hoist larger ones _and_ this wasn't exactly the windy city). Clint busied himself teaching people archery after the aluminium extruder was completed and they could make a virtually endless supply of arrows - now everyone in Claptrap who was able could shoot a gun or a bow. 

When Steve and Win told people "this man saved my life," that was what they chose to see, a man. A strange man that drove a lot of speculation and gossip, but a man. Not a thing. And that was how Nick was able to bring it inside the gate, to keep an even closer eye on it, to work on molding its intentions towards his own ends.

If he'd welcomed the Soldier with open arms everyone would be suspicious, most of all Steve, and distrusting of his judgment. _I didn't want it here. It was all their idea._ It was great cover. As the Soldier lays out its proposal in the office, Nick contemplates the work it took to get the Soldier to his gate.

One of the remaining solar powered mini-drones had shown him the Soldier, or at least the part of it emerging from the pit in the dunes, as it did its daily fly by of the yard's perimeter. It had taken him an hour to figure out what to do about it. The aerial surveillance made Fury aware a while ago that the creature was circling Claptrap, picking off ne'erdowells as they approached, freeing their captives if they had any and sending them off in the opposite direction with supplies. The Soldier didn't direct them to the junktown because if it did they would have reported it was out there.

Still, when it discovered a child in the back of a now-dead cannibal's truck with the corpse of her mother, the Soldier left her at Claptrap's gate in the middle of the night. To this day no one but Nick knew where she came from but Steve had commented on how often the mute little girl would follow him around once the Soldier arrived. If the neural net was functioning properly the thing would be a blank, immobile shell without the commands of a master. That meant it had none; no one with the knowledge to control it would be the type to use their weapon to save children. 

The microcircuitry must be damaged. That didn't mean it was harmless or on their side either. Most likely it could sense the asset was near, or had even followed them from the barn where they'd recovered it, but it doesn't know where they put it. Trapping it was out of the question. It wasn't impossible, but it would cost far too many lives and it was obvious that they would not be able to make it comply if they were successful. 

He could not help but recall when they had first encountered Win in the factory. She had nearly carved Steve's face off with an acetylene torch yet he had begged Fury not to abandon the stranger to starve alone; he had no idea who was even under the mask and baggy coveralls. The kid didn't speak her language and still managed to convince her to come along. They could just barely hold a full conversation now with months of the Soldier's tutelage.

Steve was a powder keg under the right circumstances, and there was certainly some dark shit swirling behind the non-threatening, boyish face. But he was usually thoughtful, patient, funny, jovial. He wasn't judgmental or afraid of much. Fury remembers Steve staring into the dark of the barn's tool storage cubicle; always too curious for his own good.

If _it_ had been in the dark alcove as the blonde peered in, it definitely saw him. The thing could have yanked him in there, clamped a hand over his mouth, drained him before any of them noticed he was missing. But it hadn't. Maybe something about Steve had convinced it to let them be when they'd taken the asset. If it recognized him in the dunes, that could work to his advantage. 

If the Soldier was playing at being a person, maybe it wanted a friend.

It had only taken a little late night tampering with Clint's machine - flushing out some of the lubricant, creating a hairline fracture in a cog with a hammer and chisel that would split under pressure when it overheated - to get it to breakdown the following morning. To send Steve right where he needed him. He knew the mechanic and the welder always had their snack facing out into the wastes, away from the trashpicking. The marauders had been a convenient turn; Nick had known they were near and timed Steve's "surprise" trip perfectly so they would be on his path when he returned. The Soldier could handle them but Nick had his (now meager) tactical team on stand by in case things went south. 

He had gone to a lot of trouble to bring the Soldier into the fold. Yet here it was telling him it wanted to leave the junktown (and without its babysitter).

"I am not a dog. I do not wish to follow someone around anymore." The Soldier stares up at him across the desk, sitting in the chair Steve had been in recently. Unlike the blonde - face an open book, nervous energy spilling out into a constantly jiggling leg as his long, spindly fingers picked at something on his pant leg - it sits unblinking, back straight, hands in loose curls facing palms-down in its lap. Its eyes are a color reserved for gel ice packs or glowsticks. God, it is unsettling. 

"And if I give you what you want, what guarantees do I have I won't regret it?" Fury queries. 

"If my intentions towards you and this community were violent in nature, you would already be dead and it would be rubble." 

_Cocky._ Steve had rubbed off on him. Fury immediately imagines Clint's lewd response to that statement. 

The archer, thankfully, hadn't stayed after saying his piece. It amounted to _give the thing whatever it wants,_ though the shorter man had addressed it as Bucky. Clint had a fetish for calling people diminutive versions of their name. He had called Fury "Nicky" just once and the withering look the older man had given him deterred him from doing it again. He had referred to the mechanic as Stevie for years despite the blonde's repeated protests.

He was already well aware Steve had rubbed off on Clint. The archer had taken to the mechanic right away like he was a stray dog (subtly needy once you got past the biting). That was why he had not asked Clint to sabotage the machine. He noticed the kid often made a show of keeping Clint at arm's length, but to Fury it only confirmed how much Steve valued the other man's company. 

"Let's say I granted your little request. What else would you need?" 

"I would require ammunition. And the assistance of your metalsmith in the creation of several items. In addition, permission to make modifications to one of your vehicles. Win would assist me." Its face is almost without expression save something stirring deep in its eyes.

"What reassurance do I have that you'll keep your word?" 

"I was not trained to lie." 

_You weren't trained to have domestic squabbles either._ The scene in the bar, and the loud argument that followed, caused some significant chatter throughout the community about their long-term guest. Perhaps it was for the best to remove the Soldier from the equation. Fury had initially assumed the situation with Steve would blow over, but the blonde would not come out of his shanty. Regardless of his long-term goals, in the short-term he needed his machines to run, his power to stay on and the equipment watering the crops to work properly.

"What about Steve?" Fury cocks an eyebrow.

"What about him?" The Soldier's tone stays bland but there's a flicker of something on his face. 

"I need an hour to make the necessary arrangements. _Will that do, sir?_" he asks in a sarcastic, put-upon tone he hopes is not lost on the thing. 

"Acceptable." The Soldier rises abruptly to leave.


	20. We'll float around and hang out on clouds, then we'll come down and have a hangover.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve struggles with the repercussions of his actions.

Steve wakes in his bed, not entirely sure how he got there. It feels like a full sized marching band is performing Mardi Gras music inside his skull. His body is slick and gritty under his filthy jeans and too-warm sweater. At least his boots are off; Buck must have done that. It makes him warm a bit but then he twists the soft feeling into anger. 

He sits up slowly on shaky arms, his hands incredibly sore. When everything stops going gray and he can move without fear of falling on to the floor, he lifts his hands to check them. His knuckles are bruised dark and swollen; one of them even split open.

_Yeah. That happened._

His face is worse, a steady burning throb from his left cheek spreading into his jaw and molars. Clint had pulled no punches, literally. Turning his head feels like an immense endeavor that takes hours - he's moderately dizzy, stomach lurching, the room still moving after he has stopped. He's hit with a memory of throwing up all over the floor, on his hands and knees. Buck must have cleaned it up. 

He vaguely remembers the bigger man wiping his face with a rag as he slapped at him, scooping him up while Steve battered him with his fists, putting him in bed as the smaller man raged and called him every name in the book. 

_That was nice of him._ Steve's rational voice sounds so much like his mom. 

**Fuck him. He shouldn't have touched me.** The stubborn one is all Steve though. Or maybe that's his dad coming out. He wouldn't know. He'd never met the man. 

_You would've preferred waking up in your cold puke on the freezing ground?_

Steve's eyes scan around again - the small trash can is on the floor next to the bed, lined with a plastic shopping bag. There were several bottles of water, a package of crackers and a container of aspirin on the top of the headboard. 

_That's like gold around here. Bruce would have given him a couple, if he begged, but not a bottle._

It must have come from the Soldier's duffel, or the "bag of tricks" as Steve had labelled it since Buck would pull the most random things out of it. _The duffel_. It was usually in the corner almost straight across the shack from the bed, along with Buck's unused, rolled up sleeping bag and a small trunk they'd found for him to store his few clothes in. The corner was completely empty. Steve feels like a pit has opened in his stomach. 

**It's just the hangover.**

_You shouldn't have said the things you did._

**I just told him the truth.**

_Only stupid people mistake cruelty for honesty._

He had been cruel. 

So what? The Soldier deserved it. It was hard to put words to exactly why, harder still to remember all of what he'd said. He'd felt betrayed or cheated or tricked. And so very, very pissed off. 

_And you certainly never use anger to mask your other feelings..._

He'd yelled at Buck for going after him to the pub, for making a scene in front of everyone. They had definitely noticed his glowing eyes, not to mention the extreme level of violence that he was capable of, even against someone who befriended him. Steve said he was sick of the Soldier following him around like a big, stupid dog. 

"You ruined everything!" Steve had screamed up at him as soon as they were inside the shanty. Fuck, he's drunk. When did that happen? 

"I will apologize. The others will understand." 

"Fuck Clint. Fuck the others. You ruined everything **for me!** I trusted you. I trusted you to stay in the house when I asked and not to be **fucking yourself** while I was away!" He's starting to slur his words, to get that weird feeling like his head is a balloon coming untethered from his body.

The Soldier's face stays painfully blank.

"I did not ask you to spy on me." His voice is low and even, but there's that hint of anger beneath. 

_Fuck, so he knew._

"It's my house!" _Good comeback, Rogers. Very sound argument._

"It is _my_ body. You do not decide what I do with it." For the first time ever, the Soldier actually raises his voice. Not just to a typical volume like earlier, which had seemed so loud to Steve, but a level actually above that. It only pushes the button in the blonde's brain that tells him to be even more confrontational.

"I let you sleep with me!" The blonde throws his hands up, feels dizzy and off-kilter immediately. 

"I have not done it in the bed. When you were here." 

"YOU DID IT IN MY BED?" Steve practically screams. _I bet the neighbors loved that._

"Only the first time. I did not realize what would happen." His voice is low again, perhaps even a bit embarrassed, not at the act itself but at his lack of knowledge. 

"I really thought I wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit from you. That I could trust you of all people to not want _that_. I mean, what the hell? You shouldn't even think about things like that," Steve rants. He suddenly has to grab the back of a kitchen chair, the room starting to spin slowly on a tilted axis.

"I have not done anything wrong. It is a normal part of human behavior." The Soldier looks genuinely affronted. Something about that really bothers Steve. A childish voice in the back of his mind says that Buck is just copying facial expressions from those around him, trying to mimic real emotions rather than feeling them.

"**Well you're not fucking human, are you?**" Steve retorts, raising his eyes to look the bigger man in the face. Real hurt blossoms there. The Soldier's brows knit together, his lips press into a little frown.

Steve didn't have time to contemplate that reaction before he was violently wretching. Now he's stuck in bed with all the time in the world to think. 

**Nobody ever wants _me_ in the way I want to be wanted. Win didn't love me back. Sam and Carol just used me to entertain themselves. Everyone else who's ever made advances towards me thought I'd be weak and easy to control. They just wanted to lord their power over someone. The last thing that I need is some random monster getting off thinking about doing god-knows-what to me. Because it's never enough for people to just fantasize about hurting someone, eventually they always do it.**

The other voice tells him that he isn't being fair, that he's not a psychic and he has no idea what's in Buck's head. Steve pushes it away. 

He feels like he literally wants to die. The nausea and headache are terrible, his body throbbing with pain, and he knows the twisting inside him is from far more than overdoing it at the pub. He desperately needs to hate everyone - the Soldier, Clint, all the stupid people at the bar who had laughed at them while they beat each other, Fury for letting this happen. He needs to hate them so that he doesn't have to hate himself.

He sleeps most of the day away, barely eating anything and refusing to let himself take any of the aspirin. Physically he feels passable the next morning, but he just can't bring himself to get out of bed. His sleep was riddled with nightmares and unlike before, when he would wake up and see Buck there (and occasionally even put his hand on the sleeping Soldier's belly to feel its calming rise and fall as he had once done to Violet) he is completely alone. 

Steve can hear and feel and smell Brock like he's in the room. He wraps his arms around his head, buries his face in the crooks of his elbows, but it does nothing to block it out. It does however muffle his screaming, equal parts disgust, rage and frustration.

He drifts in and out the whole day, seeing Brock, his mom, Jack. He can't bring himself to eat anything, only gets up once to piss in the trash can out of desperation. Several people come knocking on his door that day, Nat and Wanda among them, but he tells them all to leave him alone. He's afraid if he doesn't respond at all they'll tell Fury he's offed himself and the strike team will break the door down.

By the third day he smells awful. He's still in the same night shirt that he had begrudgingly changed into after waking up, which would normally be fine but he had not washed up at all before or since putting it on. There was even more urine in the can, and it certainly didn't smell like roses either. He makes himself eat, but goes right back to bed. 

Steve had never thought of himself as a prissy or germiphobic person, but he was definitely fastidious. His mother had kept an extremely clean apartment and he'd been expected to pull his proverbial weight since he was a small boy; Sarah Rogers hated the idea that people thought of the poor as dirty and unkempt. Every time he started to convince himself to get up, he looked over at the empty corner. He reaches up and touches the swollen spot on his face, the little cut there crusted over. 

What had he done? 

He doesn't want to face the people in the town. He doesn't want to have to answer for his behavior or Buck's behavior. He doesn't want to listen to Nick's smug observations. 

When he wakes up the fourth day he just can't fucking lay there anymore, drowning in his own stink. 

Cleaned up and changed, trash can emptied and relined, he makes his way to Win's. She's not really a breakfast person and always has tea or coffee in the morning while she reads her comic books. The welder had never failed to cheer him up, and he thought they could go on their rounds together, returning some sense of normalcy to his life.

"You look like shit," Win says without a hint of humor, sitting at her small table as she sips what appears to be Earl Grey from the smell. 

He had avoided looking in the mirror at home, but she directs him to the one hanging behind him near the entrance. His face sports a black and blue lump with a scab in the middle, green and yellow moddled bruising spreading out from it. He's more pale than usual (even with all the scavenged sunblock in the world his fair skin still burns and then very lightly tans), eyes rimmed red and hair looking greasy. _Well if she didn't want to date you before, Rogers…_

Everything in her place is metal with very few exceptions, soldered from scrap, trinkets and random parts that they had scavenged and spray-painted in various bright colors. She's buzzed her hair again somewhat recently and it's extra short. Watching her sit at her teal scavenged garden table - braless in a men's white muscle shirt, woven leather suspenders holding up her paint splattered cargo pants,their legs rolled up at the bottom just above her unlaced boots - Steve wonders how he ever thought he was cool enough for this person. Win took the apocalypse in stride along with every hardship it had to offer and somehow came out incredibly confident and driven. 

He realizes quickly her inability to suffer bullshit is in full effect. He watches her eye him with displeasure as he sits down across from her. She must be mad about the thing with Clint. Or him sticking her with the work the last few days. Or her translator skipping town on what she probably guessed was his account. 

"You were asshole to him," she says bluntly. 

"Can you be more specific?" is all he can think to respond. 

She gestures to Buck's things, piled in a corner. 

"He's...he's here still? He's staying with you?" There's a tone to the last sentence even he can't quite decipher. 

"We are friends."

Steve knows her well enough to hear the implied "duh" in her tone. He supposed it was true. Win and the Soldier were certainly huddled together in conversation a lot when he was busy fixing something. Come to think about it, they were a bit handsy with each other. _Were they…?_

"He's in love with you." She says it flat and direct, like she's saying that shit stinks. "He does not really understand. But he is." 

_Yeah. Yeah that kind of makes sense._

"And… how do you feel about that?" 

"Sorry for him." She sips her tea. _Just like Kermit,_ he thinks, _full of not so subtle judgment._

"Where is he?" Steve is a bit embarrassed at how much like pleading that sounded. 

"Run." She picks her comic back up, lays it across the knee she has balanced against the side of the tabletop. 

"We're not assigned to go out for a few weeks."

"He is assigned every run now." She opens her book, flips slowly through a few pages like he's very boring. After a long silence, she finally looks up at Steve's pathetically forlorned face, sighs, tosses the book on the table. "Few days trip. Clint though, at the pub. Go!" 

"I don't know what to say to him." Steve stares at his hands.

"Maybe words not your strength. Try something else." Her English was still far from perfect, but Steve couldn't judge since his Cantonese was far worse. She's certainly smarter than him, regardless of the language she uses.

Clint sees Steve way before he gets to the table, the smile fading from his equally bruised face. He gets up and makes a bee line to the bathroom. The toilets don't work so the stalls are boarded shut, but there's a urinal trough that drains just fine.

Nat calls to the small man as he passes in pursuit. "That's not a good idea, blondy. He's not in a place to hear what you have to say right now."

When Steve bursts in, the archer actually is taking a piss. He intentionally draws it out, whistling a tune and wheedling from side to side as Steve waits in silence; by the end he's just forcing out random drops. After he's zipped up he covers his hands in entirely too much sanitizer, stares Steve down as he aggressively rubs it around for far too long. Steve just gazes back, an uncharacteristically nervous look on his face. 

"This had better be fucking good," Clint finally growls, "I mean an epic apology. Grovelling. Begging. Promises of servitude."

Steve takes a step towards him, slowly reaches out and takes Clint's (slimy, alcohol scented) hand. The blonde moves it to his own bony shoulder. Clint's face twists as Steve looks earnestly up at him, eyes shiny. Steve leans forward and pushes his face to the bigger man's chest.

"I'm sorry. _I'm sorry I hit you._ I'm sorry I said you weren't my friend." The smaller man's deep voice, half muffled, crackles as tears start to spill down his cheeks, soaking hot through Clint's shirt. 

"That'll do pig. That'll do." Clint lightly squeezes his shoulder. Steve sobs, his own hands dangling at his sides as his body starts to shake. 

"Can I…? Can I hug you?" the archer asks tentatively. He feels Steve nod against him and slides his thick arms loosely around Steve's upper back. "It's okay, kid. It's okay." 

Another patron enters, eyes the two men. "I need to piss. Get a room."

"**Fuck you, prick! We're bonding here!**" Clint yells.

Once the man has backed out of the door, Steve starts giggling. He slowly stands upright, wiping his face as he breaks into fits of laughter. The archer does the same. Soon their maniacal cackling is echoing in the tiny space and spilling out into the pub.


	21. They don't shave their heads for the heat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck puts his first scavenging plan into effect and possibly makes a new friend.

Buck had not developed any sort of plan as to what his requested position - permanent scavenging run point leader - could gain him. He recognized going to Fury and asking to completely change the nature of their arrangement was poorly thought out, a purely emotional reaction. In some small way that gratifies him; it is very human. It was clear he could no longer spend all his time with the little mechanic. Perhaps he would not be spending _any_ of his time with him. 

He tried to push away the feelings that thought made claw at the inside of his chest and stomach. Regardless, they both required space that could not be had if the blonde were required to continue watching him or if Buck had to remain constantly on the grounds of the junktown. He could not hide inside Win's (very interesting to look at) home forever. 

He had not acknowledged previously how wasted his skill set was within Claptrap. It was good to feel the weight of the full magazine and the weapon that housed it hanging on the strap across his body, of the loaded pistol in its holster against his thigh. Perhaps he should not enjoy wearing the uniform - goggles, mask, boots, heavy slacks - forced upon him when he was one of many identical soldiers. Maybe it speaks to him as a creature of violence to be pleased with the makeshift harness he had added to the front of his vest for the two dozen throwing knives the metalsmith had forged for him. Yet he feels comfortable and alert in a way he had not in some time. 

On his request, and with Fury's permission, Win had welded two circular steel mounts on the top of the heaviest run truck's cab, several more sets along the roof of the cargo box attached to it. The vest had retractable strapping along both sides - designed to rig himself into an aircraft were it to become damaged and lose pressure - just above his waist. Each could be extended about five feet and featured a steel caribener on the end that pressed flat to his ribs when the straps were fully in. With the rings he could clip himself to the truck, wherever was necessary. No matter what he was hit with, he would not be removed from the vehicle. 

The welder had also constructed and attached metal plates over the front windshield and side windows. They featured a series of holes large enough to see out but small enough to be virtually impossible for even very low caliber rounds to pass through. She also added a structure made of large pipes across the front of the grill, similar to the so-called cow catcher on a train. He had seen that in one of Steve's books.

Fury had suggested two options for his first major mission - hit a group of reavers that was gathering to the east in the remains of a farming town or invade a formerly friendly stronghold in the west that had been violently colonized by Burners. 

The reavers had limited transportation, but were savage cannibals. They would move into a town or facility, carve up the locals, settle in and then start branching out with raiding parties, killing and eating everyone within fifty miles before moving on to the next area. They barely even bothered to scavenge. Claptrappers on runs had come across reaver kills who still had hoards of canned food and other useful supplies with them. There wasn't much around but the junktown and it was only a matter of time before they found their way to the front door. 

The Burners had some transportation but largely stuck to their compound and the general vicinity. They had agriculture, solar power, hand dug wells, hydroponics. The settlement, a former green living experimental facility that hosted retreats for wealthy vegetarians and guilt-ridden soccer moms, had been a mini zen paradise before the collapse but it was too small to support more than fifty people so Fury could not move his community there. 

Claptrap did not have direct communication with the Green Place, as it was simply called. It was out of walkie and cb range so even after they had sent a party to say hello and do a bit of trading there was still no easy way to know what was going on there. They had worked out a fairly regular pattern of meeting halfway to exchange information and goods. After their representatives did not appear one day, Fury retasked a drone to check out what was happening. They were met with a series of giant crosses - burning - with people strapped to them just outside the Green Place's perimeter wall.

Claptrappers had crossed paths with Burners before on the road - if they were not "of the color they preferred" (as Fury put it) they had tortured and killed them, setting them on fire in the wastes at the edge of the dunes, maiming their white companions as "race traders."

Nick explained Burners, short for Crossburners, were remnants of several social and political groups that believed in the supremacy of so-called white or Caucasian people over all others. It had taken Fury a lot of time to make the concept even semi-clear to the Soldier. Buck gave little thought to people's flesh pigmentation, beyond noticing its wide variety and that his own was like no else's. The Soldier certainly did not group the deserving or undeserving based on it or any other factor of bodily appearance. He decides, not for the first time, that there are many things about humans not worth emulating. 

Even with Fury's tutelage, the Soldier cannot begin to understand the complexities of bigotry, extending well beyond complexion. The need to make someone else an other so that you can be the normal. Telling yourself that someone else is lesser so that you can feel above and use that as an excuse to take from them. An inability to respect that people may believe different things or hold different cultural norms and that did not make them bad or wrong or weird. Buck certainly does not understand that even people in Claptrap, ones that he would think of as good, may hold some lesser version of these beliefs.

For the first time in a long time, he knew precisely what his goal was and how to achieve it. There was no ambiguity to slaughtering a known enemy. The idea that these people would hurt Win or Vic or any number of others in the junktown simply because they disliked something about their body completely determined by genetics made him all the more certain he would sleep well after killing them. 

Fury described in detail some of their allies who may be left at the Burners' compound if they had taken prisoners. He did not know how many of their former trading partners had been murdered or enslaved. This portion of the conversation had further cemented Buck's resolve to eliminate the Burners first. _Now he knew there was someone specific at the facility he wanted to meet._

He had quickly formulated the idea to use one of the bigger delivery trucks as a battering ram after Nick had explained the layout of the facility, particularly its wall and massive gate. Stationing himself atop it, he could easily use the high sides of the truck as cover from close ground fire. Those inside would be safe behind the shielding and within the box of the truck, small rectangular holes cut in the sides to allow firing out. Other trucks could move in for scavenging once he and the main crew had dispatched their foes. 

He would need someone reliable and fearless to drive the main vehicle - they could take heavy fire from armor piercing rounds, even something rare like a rocket launcher was not out of the question. It would be a very dangerous position to be in and they would need to think fast. He had asked for Greta. 

She seemed flattered by the request, despite her reservations about what he was. She did not like the idea he may be giving her orders, or "running the show" as she had put it, but he had calmly relayed his plan to her and asked her advice. She thought it was solid, "ballsy," and said she was eager to "kill some fascist scum." The Soldier was unsure what that meant, but saw it as an encouraging sign that she was excited for the task at hand. 

The Green Place's defenses were one of the main reasons Fury had not attempted to send anyone in after he had discovered the takeover. The walls were high, now topped with heavily armed sharpshooters, and they would have lost a lot of people trying only to possibly save no one. Most of the compound, even the agricultural areas, was not open to the sky so he had no idea how many survived (if any) from the previous residents.

Buck took heavy fire well before the truck approached the gate including high velocity rounds, the impact of which may have removed him from the speeding truck without the straps. Only one penetrated the kevlar. He was an excellent shot and was able to remove all fifteen of their wall guards before he had taken more than a few hits, several going through the meat of his arms and legs. Each hit is a blinding hot flare, like always, but he is used to pain and pushes it from his mind. Most of the holes heal quickly from within, forcing out the bullets that did not pass through.

The Soldier unhooks from the cab, reattaches halfway down the box and lays on his back. The truck smashes through the gate at full speed, debris flying over top of him. _Well done, Greta._ Then he's on his feet, firing and re-positioning methodically as the Burners seem to attack from every direction. Many do not have guns, attacking with clubs, machetes and a variety of other implements. He unhooks one strap, repels down the side of the truck on the other, runs along it slashing throats and throwing knife after knife, easily flipping back up on the roof to fire again when there are too many in one area. 

The compound's main building is low, the roof unsuitable for mounting a defense from - they have no line of fire on him from above. Walls that protected them from the outside also kept them boxed closely in, the courtyard completely surrounded with buildings and possessing very little ground cover. The people in the back of the truck open fire. Even the least skilled marksman manages to hit someone with such close proximity to their targets. It had been made clear up front that this was not a negotiation and they would not be taking prisoners; Greta had said anyone who was squeamish should stay home.

"Like shooting fish in a barrel," Greta had commented after. "Nazi fucks." 

She had also suggested several clever ways for him to feed without the others seeing. At first the Soldier pretends to not understand what she is indicating, but she finally tells him that she is not a fool and he does not need to pretend with her. 

"Whatever you are, I'm just happy you're on our side. So why don't you take one of these degenerate fucks that's still alive into that building over there and _interrogate_ him alone. Then volunteer for body duty. We usually at least pile them up inside a building if we have to take out a few. No reason to leave a mess for the next guy." 

The Soldier is grateful. He is so very hungry and it has been weeks since he has had anything human. He busies himself getting his fill while the others start cleaning the place out.

Later, he finds a man locked inside a makeshift medical facility. He had thick black hair streaked with gray swooped over his forehead and a full moustache and beard. His height, skin tone and iris coloring were as described by Fury as one of the people who frequently came to the trade meetings. While the Soldier surveyed him, the man pushed up his glasses by the bridge with a finger. They make his eyes look even bigger.

"Dr. Gurminder Arneja?" The Soldier questions. 

The shorter man responded after a brief pause. "Uh...Yes…?"

The Soldier makes a pleased grunt in return. 

They pick the facility clean with the help of the survivors, filling all three trucks and several more the Burners had on site, even strapping some items to the rooves. Fury had been concerned the remaining Greenies would protest leaving, and if there were a significant amount he'd been given orders to help secure the compound and leave them. Nick said he "wasn't playing colonizer" by stealing the resources or autonomy of another group. But of the forty-one original residents, only six remained. None disagreed with the plan to strip the facility and head to Claptrap. 

Once it is too dark to work, the solar array already disassembled and packed, they settle in around a fire to eat. Buck spends the evening speaking with the doctor at length about himself, his past and his current... situation. He is as honest as he is able to be. It feels good not to second-guess his words or how others will respond to them.

To his credit, the man's fear dissipates quickly. If anything, the Soldier seems to pique his interest. As a rule, he distrusted and feared doctors, but Gurminder was a different kind than he was familiar with. He also seemed to know just what questions to ask to get Buck thinking about something in a different way than he had before.

Several days later, after giving mission report (no casualties, only three minor injuries clearing out a building of stragglers) he assists in offloading supplies. It is evening and grows dark earlier this time of year. With his responsibilities completed, it is not long before he is standing at Steve's door. It feels right to knock; he no longer lives there and is unsure if he ever will again.


	22. Use your words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve talk about what they want and need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***extra trigger warning*** some blunt discussion of sexual violence towards the end

The blonde's face is hard to read when he opens the door - surprise, anxiety...relief? He looks tired and drawn, his aroma says he has not been eating well (though Buck is shocked at how much it still affects him). Win had informed him that, after much cajoling, Steve had returned the Soldier's things to his shanty. He can see them over the smaller man's shoulder in a neat row on the table.

"I'm not presuming you'll stay, I just...I was afraid you wouldn't talk to me otherwise." 

It's something akin to physical pain to see the large contusion, slowly fading, on the little mechanic's face. To see the fear and hurt there. To realize that the fear is not _of him_, but of him not being receptive to the smaller man's attempt to reconcile. Buck is unsure that he can; things cannot be what they were before. 

Steve stares down at his feet. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I was…"

"A large asshole." Win's words out of his mouth. 

"Yeah," Steve says simply, looking up at him with his head still bowed. "Can we talk inside?" 

"Remember what we discussed about personal boundaries," a voice chimes in from the Soldier's right. Steve leans far enough out of the doorframe to see Gurminder. 

The doctor gives him a little wave and pleasant smile. "Hello! You must be Steve."

"Ummm… hi." The blonde sounds confused and less than pleased at the intrusion.

The man in his fancy quilted vest, fleece jacket, slacks and loafers would look like a wealthy suburban dad going for a fall stroll save for how filthy and tattered everything he has on is.

"Buck, uh, who is that?" the smaller man asks.

"After you fell asleep from the alcohol, I went to apologize to Clint. He revealed my understanding of several terms was inaccurate and during that discussion he said," the Soldier looks up, making effort to recite from memory, "maybe I was wrong trying to hook you two up. Steve does not need a boyfriend. He needs a good psychiatrist." 

Buck looks at Steve after in silence for a long moment, the ghost of a proud smile on his face, as if his accomplishment is obvious.

"So you're telling me you…kidnapped a psychiatrist?" Steve is talking to Buck but not looking at him, eyes fixated on the doctor. 

"Rescued, actually," the stranger chimes in. "From Burners." 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look like someone the Burners would keep around." 

"I thought for sure I was dead, but then they asked if I was a doctor. I guess they figured every well-dressed brown guy with the right accent is. Not many healthcare professionals kicking around these days so they couldn't be choosy. I just never told them what kind of doctor." Gurminder laughs, little lines forming at the corners of his eyes. 

"How'd you pull that off?" the blonde asks, sounding mildly impressed.

"I had enough medical training to fake it for the simple stuff. The first appendicitis or bullet wound and I would have been screwed. But my friend here," he gives the Soldier a pat on the arm that makes Steve's brow furrow a bit at its level of familiarity, "liberated me from their bondage."

Bondage. Another topic Clint and the Soldier had discussed. Buck decided it would be, as Clint had said, not his thing. He had been restrained enough for a life time. 

"Can we talk?" Steve sounds a bit exasperated, weary. 

"We _are_ all talking," Buck responds matter-of-factly. 

"_Alone._" Steve turns to the doctor, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ten minutes long enough for me not to _erode his boundaries?_" He holds up his arm and taps his wrist, indicating the watch on Gurminder's own. "You can time me. You're used to that in your profession." 

The doctor nods when the Soldier looks to him. Buck follows Steve inside. The smaller man sits on the edge of the bed, runs a hand through his (finally clean) hair, not sure where to start. 

"Sit?" Steve motions to a kitchen chair.

The Soldier remembers the dog comment, recalls seeing people give the simple command to their canines, and bristles slightly. 

"Please?" 

There is something vaguely desperate in Steve's tone. He slowly complies, but chooses a different chair, even though it does not face the closed door like the one previously gestured to. Perhaps he had absorbed some of the little mechanic's stubborn nature. 

"Okay, where to start. Firstly, I know I was a huge asshole and I said a lot of things to you that I shouldn't have, and I slapped you, like a bunch of times, and also you had to clean up my puke and that's _really awful_. So I'm really, really sorry and I get it if you're pissed off at me." Steve fiddles with a thread on one of the blankets. 

"And?" Buck says flatly, employing a technique he has witnessed Steve and Clint use on one another. 

"I get it, if you want to go stay with Win or someone else. But I really, really would like you to move back here." 

_"And?"_

_Taste of your own medicine, Rogers._ Steve finally looks at him, but quickly looks away.

"I'm sorry that I spied on you. That I got mad you were… I didn't want to think of you as wanting things like that but it was selfish to expect you to not have...needs...just because I get...weird about that stuff. Part of why I got so upset was because… Well, you were… You were clearly thinking about me when you were doing it." 

"I do not think about anything while I do it, except that it feels good." The Soldier's voice is as placid as ever. 

"But you...moaned my name." Steve's cheeks redden at that, even the bruised one. 

"I called to you because I realized you were outside the window," Buck says calmly. 

_Oh, Steve. You goddamn idiot._ He feels foolish, then - strangely - a bit disappointed when he believes Buck did not want him that way, perhaps any way, after all. 

Then the Soldier follows up with, "and I hoped you would join me." There's a faint hint of something smoky in his voice. 

"_Wait, what?_" Steve blurts out. 

"I choose not to think about you when I touch myself because it feels inappropriate to put you in a situation you may not want, even in my imagination. But I do have sexual feelings for you. I would have been pleased if you had come in, had touched me or let me touch you." 

_Well, goddamn._ Steve is uncharacteristically speechless. 

"I would never touch you in that way without your permission or force you to do anything, save to protect you or prevent you from harming yourself, as I did when you were intoxicated. I would never hurt you. You have nothing to fear from me or my genitals." 

Steve knows Buck's not trying to be funny with that last part, which is what in fact makes it hilarious. He can't help letting out a short chortle. 

"Um, okay. Thank you for… clarifying." 

"I have also, with help, realized I am... romantically attracted to you. If you do not reciprocate those feelings, I would still like to be friends. However, our relationship cannot be what it has been. It is too confusing and difficult for me, emotionally." 

_Wow. That shrink must have made a fortune before the collapse. Or Clint really does have good advice occasionally._

"So let's say I… was open to the idea of maybe having those types of thoughts and feelings about you. Would you move back in?" Steve tip toes carefully around stating anything outright.

"Only if you will agree to speak to the psychiatrist as much as he deems necessary." Buck's face is a mask, giving away nothing. 

The blonde sighs, long and hard, stares up at the ceiling.

"Fiiiiine," he groans like he's accepting a terrible punishment. 

"You must also realize I will make my own decisions about what I do with my time and body." Buck's voice gets the slightest bit louder, more forceful. 

"I won't boss you around or try to control you, _but_ I have conditions too." Steve side-eyes the bigger man. 

"Name your terms and I will advise if they are agreeable." His voice is soft again, a glint of curiosity in his eye. 

"When you… _touch yourself_, you'll hang something on the outside of the doorknob. A bandana, a shirt, something, so I know to give you your privacy." Steve's face grows a bit pink.

"Acceptable. However, consider my invitation to join me still open regardless of the presence of a cloth." He stares at Steve, unblinking, not a hint of shame. The blonde's face reddens even more. 

"And about… that stuff. I…" The smaller man looks down at his hands. _Fuck, is he really going to do this?_ "What do you know about the people I was with, before here?" 

"That they were _deserving_. That they hurt you. That you have many scars from them." The Soldier's eyes, now more ice blue than their standard pale turquoise, start to glow slightly. 

"You've seen those?" Steve's voice goes quiet, but there's something vaguely accusatory in it. 

"When your shirt has pulled up in the back." It is not a lie, it is just not the whole truth. He had not seen the marks since the day in the barn. He was careful not to look when Steve changed. 

"What else do you know?" Steve continues, voice still low, cautious.

"That your time with them still affects you. That you have nightmares. That you avoid most physical contact. That it is difficult for you to trust others, especially males." 

Steve let's out a long wavering breath, steels himself for what he's about to say.

"Their leader was a man named Brock. He was ex special ops, like Fury, ran a crew of others who were too. I thought, at first, I'd got lucky meeting them. I'd been alone for a year, had a few run ins with dangerous people. Brock's crew had supplies, vehicles, weapons and they were military. People who protect you." He swallows hard, looks up at the ceiling. "And Brock was…He was really attractive, well-built, and...convincing. I was nineteen and I had never even kissed anyone and even though he was a lot older I was flattered when he paid attention to me." 

Steve finally glances at Buck. The Soldier watches with rapt attention, eyes just a bit wide, lips pressed together. 

"The first night he offered to let me stay in the lead truck. He gave me a bedroll, told me I'd sleep better there, away from the others' snoring. He...sat with me. Asked me all sorts of questions about myself. He seemed so friendly and nice. Then he…he pulled me up onto his lap. He said...I was so pretty and...put his hand between my legs. He had his other arm around me tight and he was really strong and I...just froze." Steve stops, picks a bottle of water off the headboard, takes a long drink.

The Soldier's eyebrows are drawn towards each other when he looks back at him, corners of his mouth turned down. 

"He...he put his hand in my pants and… stroked me. I was freaked out that he would just **do** something like that without asking and…I thought maybe I'd done something, to lead him on." His voice goes lower, twists with shame. "No one had ever touched me like that and I… Even though I was scared I got hard. He took his hand out and I thought, thank god, he's realized I'm not comfortable, but then it was back, just...wet. I was disgusted, but my body just…reacted and I… finished in my pants, really fast." 

Steve looks down at his lap, rubs both hands over his face, the pain from his cheek bringing him back to himself. 

"He just sort of...pushed me off him and got up. I asked if he had anything I could clean up with and he said...He said _sit in your mess, slut_ and I knew, I knew immediately I had made a huge mistake. I tried to run for the door but he caught me, started beating me. I fought back, really hard, but it wasn't enough and he…_Brock raped me._" He barely whispers those words. He's never said them to anyone. "He kept telling me how it was obvious I wanted it. That I couldn't deny that he'd got me off. Like it was all my fault because I came when he touched me. He never tried to jerk me off again, but he forced himself on me over and over. I resisted every single time so he'd...He would torture me, sometimes during, sometimes after." 

The Soldier's brows have drawn harshly down in the middle, his lower lip trembling, eyes blazing blue-white with anger. 

"So, I...I may want to touch you. I may want you to touch me. But I'm not sure…how I'll react. Sometimes, even when I touch myself, I feel...panic. Disgust. I need to go slow. Really slow. I need you to be patient and understand it's not about you." 

"You will have all the time you require. I will not touch you at all unless you ask. I will sleep on the floor." Buck's face has softened, but his eyes are still fierce. In his head he can only chant _I will kill this person, I will kill this person, I will kill this person…_

"No...I...I missed you in the bed, when I was upset." He tries his best to give a little smile, is unsure if it comes across that way. "And… if you want to touch me, in a non-sexual way, as long as it's not from behind and I see you coming, that's…that's okay too. It's...nice when you do." 

Buck gets up, crosses slowly to Steve, gets on his knees in front of him, carefully takes his hand and pulls it to the side of his face. He rubs his cheek back and forth against it as he looks up at the blonde, then turns his head, presses his lips lightly to the smaller man's palm. Now the blonde is sure he's smiling.

Right on time, Gurminder knocks on the door.


	23. Getting to know you, getting to know all about you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve start to explore their boundaries.

The next few weeks pass slow for Steve and Buck. There is a lot of nervous energy between them, especially when they are alone together, but they resume reading in bed (as well as sharing it to sleep) immediately. There isn't even another conversation about it - after Buck helped the doctor and the Greenies get settled in temporary housing, he goes back to Steve's and ten minutes later they are changing with their backs to each other in their usual spots. 

Buck barely sleeps, mind buzzing after their mutual admissions. And that was what Steve had done in his own way, admitted he shared the other man's feelings. The Soldier understood being open about such things - vulnerable - was not the little mechanic's way but how calmed the smaller man seemed by his presence said a lot. Despite the slight awkwardness and tension between them when the lights were still on, the blonde fell asleep fast and did not move or make noise save his deep breathing, utterly exhausted after not having the brunette there to make him feel safe in the night. 

Steve started his appointments with Gurminder after only a few days. He expected the doctor to immediately prod him to talk about some of the things he had discussed with Buck, assuming the Soldier had repeated them to his new confidant. But the subject doesn't come up. Gurminder only seems genuinely interested in getting to know Steve right now. The blonde knows this is step one with any therapist worth their salt, gaining your trust and getting you to be more comfortable with them. He tells himself it won't work on him, but mentally commends the doctor on his technique anyway. 

Nick had liked the idea of having a head-shrinker around, not only to keep track of the stability of the residents - and deal with their ever-mutating interpersonal problems - but also to obtain information on them. He sets the doctor up with an office and treats his position as a public works job, allowing him access to food and supplies from the community coffers. In return the doctor provides free services to anyone who needs them. Gurminder even starts doing mental health workshops teaching people about things like meditation. 

There is a lot of snickering and rolled eyes about the silliness of things like this with the current state of the world, but with all the improvements to their living situation the people finally have a little free time and are bored of the same activities. They start to show up to his group classes and eventually his office. Many of them don't even realize how traumatized they are by everything that has happened until they start to talk to him about something trivial and, as is his way, he slowly encourages them to self-direct into something more serious. He tries that technique with Steve a lot, but the blonde has been down this road before and catches on quickly.

Fury is sorely disappointed when he realizes the man will not cooperate in repeating any of what he hears from the Claptrappers - especially from Buck - nor even in giving him a general impression of their psychological health. He tells Nick that since he seems like "the police around these parts," he will follow the same protocol of only letting him know what is happening if he feels like someone will hurt themselves or someone else. When Gurminder finds a listening device in his office, he moves it to one of the outhouses. Steve is less than thrilled about having to go to the appointments, but after he hears whisperings of the doctor's rebellion against Fury, he gains a lot more respect for the man.

The blonde does have to wonder if his time with Gurminder is somehow affecting him subconsciously. Things quickly become different than before between him and Buck. They touch each other a lot - a casual hand on an arm, thighs brushing at the dinner table. Steve even gives in to the urge to play with the Soldier's hair, running his fingers through it lightly when it is out of place or pushing it out of his eyes. Their conversations are different as well, deeper somehow. He holds less back when the Soldier asks him questions, tries hard to remember how confusing and difficult this must be for Buck. 

Gurminder had advised against Buck moving back in and definitely against sharing the bed. He felt it may engender a false sense of intimacy, making Buck think he was getting what he needed when in actuality it was a way for Steve to have the Soldier close without doing the work to open himself up emotionally. It was falling back into the habit of staying in a gray zone with one another, engaging in behavior that was not quite friendship but was also not openly romantic in nature. It is the one area in which Buck ignores the doctor. 

Something warms in him seeing Steve relaxed in the bed next to him. The smaller man lays closer than he would have before, arm folded beneath his head, on his side to face the Soldier. The bigger man mirrors his position while they talk about all manner of things - ideas for runs, words or concepts that the Soldier needs clarification on, the meaning of certain interactions he witnesses between people. Watching Steve's eyelids grow heavy, his long lashes finally coming to rest against his cheeks as he drifts off, is not something Buck is willing to surrender even if it gets him more emotionally invested in their (possibly going nowhere) relationship. 

The Soldier never feels more useful than when Steve wakes from a nightmare and calls out to - or reaches for - him. He may not know many words of comfort but at least he is present, able to be touched or provide touch if that is what Steve asks. Usually that is the warm press through his thin shirt of the smaller man's hand on his stomach, nothing new though Buck no longer pretends to be asleep when the blonde does it. But then one night Steve, trembling lightly and soaked in cold sweat, pushes close and requests simply _hold me_. Buck does his best, cognizant of his metal arm's weight and hardness where it rests against the little mechanic's delicate ribs. When the Soldier's dreams - minute flashes of the old Buck's life and his time as a Winter Soldier flickering through his mind like images on a broken computer screen - drive him from sleep he is careful not to wake his companion.

Eventually Buck had even revealed what, in fact, he had been reading all those weeks. Steve skimmed the book, face a bit pink (even though he does not think of himself as a prude, it was quite explicit and the state of certain pages made him realize they'd been read more than the rest). He blanches when he reaches the chapter about trauma. Buck notices his reaction and quietly informs him he had not been able to read the chapter at first, that the subject matter had upset him too much. But he had forced himself to after what Steve told him about his experiences. 

**He thinks he can use kernels of wisdom from some dimestore therapist to fix me.**

_He's just trying to understand. It's the thought that counts._

"I apologize if I upset you." The concern on Buck's face is so visible, not the usual subtle changes Steve really needs to look for to notice, that it surprises the smaller man. 

"It's okay. I asked about it." Steve gives a little smile, hands it back to Buck. 

"I apologize for misleading you before. I thought the subjects in this book may be inappropriate to discuss. Not just with you, but with anyone. People seem to bring up sexual things in jest but otherwise it is virtually never mentioned." The Soldier looks at it for a long time, takes the dust jacket off, sets it and the book carefully on the bookshelf headboard on what has become his side of the bed. 

"There's a lot of shame and taboos around sex in many cultures. Even where I grew up, which is fairly open-minded, you wouldn't hear someone having a frank conversation about masturbation." Steve is sitting atop the covers, knees folded up to his chest. 

"Is it okay we are having this discussion? It does not make you uncomfortable?" Buck has his back to the wall, legs also bent though stretched out a bit more to let their feet touch. 

"I don't need you to walk on eggshells." Steve pulls his legs in even higher as he slides the covers from beneath him, then settles between the sheets, pulling the blankets up to his waist. 

"_Walk on eggshells._ This is a metaphor?" Buck follows suit, putting a pillow against the headboard as Steve had and leaning his back against it, stretching his long legs out under the bedcovers. 

"Yeah. It means…to choose your words and actions really carefully so they don't upset someone. You don't have to do that with me. I just… I want you to be honest with me and I'll try my hardest to be honest with you. If something you say bothers me, I'll tell you, but I won't be mad." Steve turns a bit on his side to look at Buck, who considers the response silently for a long time.

"Have you ever…masturbated?" The Soldier looks down into his lap.

_Wow, okay right to the hard stuff, Rogers. No pun intended._

"Yep. Lots of times." Steve says it as matter-of-factly as he can. 

"Have you done it since I came to live with you?" Buck turns to his right to face Steve. 

"Not very much. You were around all the time and I thought that would be weird for both of us if you accidentally heard me." Steve tries hard not to blush or sound like it's_ a thing_ that he asked. This isn't something he wants to make Buck think is embarrassing, especially after how shitty he'd been about it before. 

"Now you have more time alone, while I am out on runs."

"Yeah…"_ But I'm too stressed out and tired to even think about it most of the time. _ Steve slides farther down, pulls the pillow with him. Buck follows suit, both cradling their head with their bottom arm.

"It would not be _weird_ for me, to be near when you do that." There is a soft hint of lust under his calm tone. 

"One step at a time." Steve reaches out and gently pats the larger man's chest. 

"I understand that phrase but not what it conveys in this context," he responds, looking down at Steve's hand on him. It comes to rest near his heart and does not withdraw. 

"When you… want to be sexual with someone you also have attraction for… romantically… you do...other physical things before you go right to… masturbating in front of each other." _Fuck, did I really just say that out loud?_ "You touch a little - not sexually - at first, to get comfortable, to show the other person you… have feelings for them. And then eventually you...increase that." 

Steve feels a bit selfish. Perhaps he is being misleading explaining things to Buck like they are working towards going steady in 1957, acting as if there is some rule book to follow. But he had already made it clear to the larger man he needed to move very slowly when it came to this issue, so he supposes it is best to infuse what he wants and needs into his advisement on the subject to not send mixed messages.

"Nnh," Buck half-grunts in the affirmative, "you are referencing displays of physical affection. I read about that. I was unsure if you would be comfortable with those behaviors." 

"I did say you can touch me." Steve's voice is almost shy as he says it but he doesn't look away. 

"Yes, and I have done that more but…I have concern that I will do it in the wrong way. That I will misunderstand what is affectionate rather than erotic." 

_The sound of you saying erotic is pretty erotic,_ Steve can't help but think. He pushes the bedcovers down to his knees. 

"Basically touching someone anywhere between here and here" - Steve puts one hand sideways and level with his hipbones and the other one across the middle of his thighs - "would be considered sexual." He pulls the blankets back up.

"What about...nipples?" Buck recalls touching his own and how stimulating it was. 

"Uh, yeah and those too." _Fuck, is that something he likes?_

"It is hard to know where the line is with certain behaviors between sexual and non-sexual. Kissing in particular is very confusing. The book mentioned the act as both physical affection that could be romantic or platonic and as a type of sexual foreplay. What determines that?" The Soldier looks incredibly fascinated, like Steve has promised to explain the meaning of life. 

_Shit. That's a tough one. Maybe Gurminder could explain it better. Okay, but also he could talk to **Clint** again and you saw how that went last time._

"Okay...umm. Does the book say what an...erogenous zone is?" Steve does blush a little at that despite his best efforts.

"Yes."

"Kissing someone there, or the area I showed you a minute ago, would be sexual. Kissing other places wouldn't be." 

"What about the mouth?" Buck had wondered about humans pushing their lips together since the first time he had seen it done. Sometimes it was soft and silent, sometimes quick with a loud smacking sound. Other times the mouths opened and moved together. 

"Ummm… That has to do with _how_ you kiss someone."

"I do not understand." There's that expression again, like Steve has all the answers. 

The blonde gets an odd look, a bit worried, then presses his mouth tight, draws his eyebrows down and sets his jaw - a face the Soldier has seen him make many times when he is setting his mind to a task. Steve leans forward and presses his puckered lips lightly to Buck's mouth. 

"That's an affectionate kiss." 

"Oh." The Soldier is silent for a long time, eyes scanning back and forth across Steve's face. Finally he asks, "may I try?" 

Steve slowly nods. Buck leans in very cautiously, mimicking the way Steve had moved his lips. It's almost a bit comical how exaggerated he looks, like he's eaten a lemon. He pecks Steve's mouth very lightly, the smaller man pushing his lips out a bit to meet Buck's. 

"That was very nice," Buck practically whispers, an awestruck look on his face. 

"Good." Steve gives him a little smile, slides the hand on his chest over his collarbone, lightly up the side of his neck and cheek, brushes the hair back from his face.

"May we do it again?"


	24. Practice makes perfect.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint can never leave well enough alone.

Buck had gone out on one other run since eliminating the Burners, heading back to the Green Place to protect a crew tasked to disassemble more of the agricultural equipment and bring it back to Claptrap. The trip is uneventful, but he was gone several days and Steve begrudgingly admits to himself that he misses him terribly. Apparently the sentiment is returned. 

The mechanic is in the pub having breakfast with Clint and Nat when Buck strides in from the road, heads straight towards him, sits down without so much as a hello and kisses him on the mouth. He does it again and again, with all the technique of a twelve year old, for what feels like ten minutes to Steve with everyone watching. The blonde blushes hard at the sloppy display of affection. Only Nat's nails digging into Clint's leg under the table keep him from saying anything.

"Um, hi," the archer manages when the Soldier finally let's Steve up for air. 

"Hello," Buck returns, painfully oblivious to the reactions from everyone else and smiling like he's just won a contest or got to hold a puppy. 

As soon as the Soldier is standing at the hotline on the other side of the building getting his breakfast, Clint breaks into hysterical laughter. 

"Oh man!" he gasps. "That was _painful_ to watch!" 

Steve leans over the table, whacks Clint's knuckles with the handle of his butter knife. "He'll get better. We just started doing that." His voice is testy but ultra-low.

"Well, god, give the poor guy some pointers. That looked like my Aunt Mable with her pomeranian." 

"**Fuck you,** and also I don't want to hurt his feelings. This is super new to him and I don't want him to think he's screwing up right away." Steve is still talking super soft.

"Why are we whispering?" Clint too-loud whispers back.

"Because he has really good hearing." 

"There's no way he could hear from over there." Clint turns to watch Buck, in conversation with Vic, across the room. It's loud in the pub as well, fifty people talking and chewing and scraping their plates with silverware. 

"Buck, if you can hear me, give me a thumbs up," Nat says in an only slightly above normal voice. Without missing a beat the Soldier's arm is up, giving the gesture. 

Steve points both hands, palms up, in Buck's direction as if to say _see_. 

"How do you talk shit about him under your breath when he pisses you off?" Clint asks. 

"Right? That's like... twenty-five percent of our relationship," Nat replies. Clint kisses her on the cheek as she roles her eyes. 

"Unlike you two, we don't argue. We talk about things like grown-ups." The blonde cockily moves his head from side to side. 

"Too bad you aren't smooching like grown-ups." The archer grins, loudly bites his over-dry toast. 

"He's coming back. Not. One. Word." Steve stares Clint down. 

Clint invites Buck over to play cards that afternoon. The Soldier, having helped unload the equipment and debriefed Fury, has little to do that day while Steve works. They've been playing for all of twenty minutes when the archer finally can't help himself.

"So...what was with the suckface at breakfast?" Clint draws a card, eyes it likes it's very interesting. He never beats Buck - he's good at faking people out but the Soldier's poker face is flawless and he's clearly been trained to think strategically. 

"I do not understand." His face is perfectly blank. Win had taught him to play and to give nothing away. 

"You and the kid, locking lips." 

"Oh. You mean kissing." Still not a hint of a change in his expression as he reviews his cards. 

"I mean...if you can call what you were doing to his face _kissing_," the archer says low as he rearranges his hand. 

This finally earns Clint the faintest hint of consternation on the taller man's features. 

"Steve enjoys what I do to his face." He schools his own back to blank, save something vaguely uncertain in his eyes. 

"If you say so." 

The Soldier's brows knit together ever so slightly.

They focus on the game, Clint sure he's rattled his opponent. After he triumphantly slaps down a straight flush the Soldier calmly lays his cards down on the table. Royal flush. 

"Jesusfuck! Every goddamn time!" Clint grabs the deck and throws the cards up in the air; they drift down slowly around both of them. 

"What am I doing wrong? To Steve's face?" Now he's wearing a full on frown. It continues to surprise Clint how expressive he's become. 

"Well, you've got the enthusiasm but your technique is all off." Clint slides his chair closer to the bigger man. 

"How do I learn this…_technique_?" Buck looks at him earnestly. 

"Oh, me and you are totally gonna practice." Clint smirks. 

He's barely gotten the words out before Buck leans in and jams his mouth to the archer's.

"Woah! Woah! I was kidding. It was sarcasm." Clint's hands press the other man gently away. 

"I do not understand sarcasm. It is stupid!" Buck pouts, throwing himself heavily back in his chair with his arms crossed. 

"Look, I can _explain_ what to do," Clint tries to console him. 

"Nnn," he grunts. "You do not learn to fight by being told how. You are shown and you practice. Steve does not provide direction and I have limited time with him in which kissing is appropriate." 

Clint leans his head back, sighs heavily. "Fuck it. Fuck it, fine. Come'ere." 

Buck just scowls at him, hands sliding further along his sides as his hold around himself tightens. Clint grabs the seat of his chair and hops it over next to the bigger man. 

"You can't tell anyone I did this. I don't care if people think I kiss dudes, I just don't want Steve to sucker punch me again." Clint leans in closer. "Okay, first of all your body language is shit. You need to be relaxed when you kiss someone, make them feel welcome in your space." 

The archer takes ahold of Buck's arms and, after a moment of immobile resistance, the bigger man allows him to unfold them and to turn him in his seat towards the archer. 

"Okay, so usually you want to touch the person before you do it. Not grab, just light." He puts Buck's hands on his waist. "Then you give _the look_." 

"Look?" Buck questions, before pressing his mouth back into a severe line. 

"The I want to kiss you look. Like this." Clint's eyes go warm, scan over Buck's face, settle on his mouth. "Then you see how _they_ look at you. Are they giving off the vibe?"

"Vibe?" The Soldier sounds fascinated now. 

"It's, like, the energy they give off. Do they look like they want to kiss you back? If they're just sort of...meh," Clint makes a bland face, "then it's probably not the time for a good liplock." 

"_Vibe._ Okay." Buck responds like a college kid taking notes. 

"You want to start slow, especially if things are new. Don't just pounce. You're libel to chop his lip off with those chompers." Clint leans in, slides his hand to cup the side of Buck's face, lightly brushes their mouths together. The bigger man tries to pucker up and the archer pulls back. "Nope, nope. That's just for like...an affectionate peck like..." he plants a quick kiss on Buck's cheek with a little popping sound. "That's something you'd do to a lady friend or a relative. Or maybe your significant other if you were in a hurry. And you don't usually do it more than once."

"Oh," Buck says, embarrassed that it is the only kissing technique he knows and yet he is apparently employing it incorrectly. 

"Relax your mouth," Clint instructs.

Buck's jaw drops open. 

"Not that much. Just a bit. Like you're about to say something. Like this." He parts his lips slightly and when Buck follows suit he leans in and presses their mouths lightly together. The Soldier emulates him, pressing softly back.

"Better! Much better. Okay, so that's nice if you just want a quick kiss, but if you want it to be more romantic, you need to fit your mouths together more and sort of...move them against each other. Like you're...lip dancing." 

"I have seen people do this!" Buck sounds like he's about to say eureka. It's the closest thing to excitement Clint has witnessed him express. 

"You want to tilt your head a bit more to the side so your mouth is at like...a forty-five degree angle from theirs." He figures the Soldier will understand technical instruction. "But if they're already tilting their head you want to do it in the opposite direction. So if I tilt mine to my right, you tilt yours to your right." Clint bends his neck a bit and the Soldier copies him. "Okay, so we go soft at first and then, when things feel comfortable you open your mouth wider. And you close your eyes while you do it." 

Clint tilts up into the kiss, lips just slightly parted. When the Soldier seems to have that down, the archer pushes against him a little harder, opens his mouth a little wider, moves his lips subtly up and down, forward and back, working his mouth against the other man's. Buck is fine at first copying his movements, but he gets a little overzealous, opening his mouth too wide. 

Clint leans back, wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. "You're kissing his mouth, not trying to swallow it. Your lips should be against his, not around them." 

"Okay. May I try again?" 

Clint nods. Buck leans in this time, emulating Clint's gesture, putting his hand to the side of the shorter man's face. He brushes their mouths together first, then slowly tilts his head, leans in harder, intensifying the kiss. He moves his mouth against the archer's with much more finesse than last time, his pulse picking up as he imagines Steve's much fuller lips against his own. 

"Ahem." A sound comes from the entranceway. 

Their heads both whip towards the door to see it a bit open and Natasha standing there. She raises her eyebrows. The Soldier is shocked he did not hear her, even with the distraction. 

"This isn't what it looks like!" Clint blurts out. 

"It _looks like_ you're making out with your friend's boyfriend."

"Okay, it is what it looks like. But it's not for sexy times. I'm teaching him." The archer gives her a goofy smile he hopes is convincing. She closes the door, sits down at the other end of the table, eyeing him seriously. 

"You know some part of me always wondered if I'd at least get a little horned up kissing a guy, but nothing. I mean, gray skin aside you're a dish, Bucky. But not even a ghost of a chubby." Clint looks at his lap.

"_Don't ruin it for me, Clint._" Nat snaps quickly. "You know, Buck, if I watched I could probably give you some good pointers." She smiles sweetly.

"Critique of form is useful when learning a new skill," the Soldier agrees. 

"Riiiight. Did you teach him how to do it with tongue?" Nat grins wickedly at Clint.

"Have you seen his teeth?" 

"Well if you're _too scared_…" she counters, smirking. 

"Fuck you, I'm not scared." He turns back to the Soldier. "Okay, so, we're gonna kiss like we just were, but I'm gonna put my tongue in your mouth juuuust a little. Like...just barely inside your lips. And you move the tip of your tongue against mine."

"This is... romantic?" Buck questions.

"Well it's...sexy kissing," the shorter man explains.

"Sexy?" 

"Yeah like, to get the other person turned on," Clint says. Nat nods a little too vigorously. 

"Turned on?" 

"Horny. Ready to go. Hot and bothered..." the archer lists off. 

"He means sexually aroused," the redhead chimes in.

"Oh." Buck contemplates if this is something he should learn. Steve is not ready to be sexual with him and he does not want to overstep. Still, it can only be a positive to know if the eventuality arises. "Okay. You may put your tongue in my mouth."

"Great! Now we're all having fun," Nat perks up. 

"Don't. Fucking. Bite me." Clint points a finger in the bigger man's face before leaning back in to kiss him.

"Yes. Yes, good form. Okay, now slide your arm around Clint's waist. Nice. Yep. Kiss a little harder. Uh huh, that's good. Open your mouth a bit more. Perfect. Now...let me see that tongue boys." Nat's hands slide off the table. 

Later, Steve can only wonder silently if Buck has been making out with his hand or a pillow. The Soldier kisses him (without tongue) so well before he shuts the light off that the blonde's toes curl. He can't deny the heat that spreads through him and he lays awake, distracted, for a long time.


	25. Hello darkness, my old friend.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve grapples with his fear.

Steve's rotation for a run is coming up soon and his usual excitement is compounded knowing it means Buck won't be out on the road without him. The Soldier seems practically invincible but he still worries. For starters, from what he's been told there are twenty-three other Winter Soldiers (eleven other males and twelve females). Who knows where they are or who is in charge of them. Would their old/new master(s) use them to claim Buck or at the least try to destroy him?

If they did capture him, was there still someone capable of repairing his neural net? The thought of the Soldier - a blank-faced, empty-headed killing machine - unleashed on Claptrap is terrifying. Steve would have to defend his friends, their community. He can't even think about what that means. Fire scares Buck but he has no idea if it will stop him or if he could bring himself to try.

The group of marauders from the first day they met is on his mind off and on as well. They were organized, well-equipped, the white X on each of their chests like some kind of matching warpaint. There had been rumors of massive gangs rising up, a thousand or more strong. They ran whole cities, destroying or enslaving anyone in their path deemed unworthy to join. Could they be from some larger group?

Others developed well-oiled personal armies that treated the sections of the former nation they took over like a fiefdom and those within them as serfs. It wasn't enough for people who craved power over others to loot, pillage and kill at random anymore. Systematically oppressing those who had established something with their own sweat was now the easiest route to prosperity and dominance.

Buck could take on thirty men, fifty. But what about a hundred? Five hundred? He was superhuman but he had his limits. And Claptrap now had a lot to steal or grift off of via threat of force. That meant more people lingering in the outskirts, more danger on the road. 

Certainly Brock had found no shortage of people to follow him; he'd had over eighty at Steve's last count. The core of them were other ex special ops and ex military Brock had worked with before and during the collapse. Like Jack. He'd started pulling in all sorts eventually, even flesheaters. If they were strong and brutal enough, or could provide an invaluable skill, they were brought into the fold. 

Steve was the only "pet" and the others weren't allowed one; their conquests were left behind or killed as they tore their way through small settlements and what was left of towns, their terrified, starving residents cowering in the remains of their homes. When one of the others put their hands on him in the night, Brock didn't beat them later to avenge the smaller man, but to establish his ownership. He often made Steve sleep among the lower-level foot soldiers, daring those beneath him to touch what belonged to him (filling the blonde with constant terror of what the others might do to him was a bonus for the leader). After Steve broke enough underlings' noses and fingers, Brock went back to leaving him on the truck. 

It was part of Brock's prestige in his position to be the only one with human property. They never settled, which meant no permanent infrastructure, dwellings or agriculture. Without any of that to tend to, the enslaved only served one purpose (okay, two if you accounted for the occasional cannibalism the group partook in), and "having some ass around," as Brock so eloquently put it, wasn't worth keeping them fed or transporting them. 

Trusting Fury's motivations towards Buck also proved difficult. Even though the older man rarely ventured into the field anymore - choosing to sit in his office pulling strings and watching his drone feeds (something only a privileged few knew about) - there were people from his ex special ops crew on every scavenging rotation. Who knew if they would be tasked with betraying Buck once his guard was down? Enough bullets, a few well-placed grenades and... 

Steve thinks it speaks to just how paranoid and untrusting he's become since Brock that he has a virtually indestructible...boyfriend?.... that's basically a living weapon and yet he still manages to concoct worst-case scenarios. Maybe, he ponders, it's because things have been far more intense between them lately and it's made him go all soft and gooey. 

They've worked their way up to nearly a half hour spent kissing before they go to sleep and it's gotten more and more passionate each time. He'd stopped pretending a while ago that it was just affectionate, then even that it was only romantic - they had clearly crossed the bridge into sexy town. It's impossible to deny how incredibly turned on he gets as of late and more and more he forgets why it had worried him so much before. He's even pulled Buck's big hands from their gentle rest on his waist lower, to his hips, or urged the larger man's arms around him, pressing close. These invitations to touch more heatedly have occurred enough times that the Soldier feels confident now to do it without prompting. 

One night the blonde balls his hands up in Buck's shirt, yanks the other man closer, puts his leg over the Soldier as their mouths move together. The bigger man's flesh arm tightens around his back, pulling Steve farther into his space, and just like that - with their height difference - Steve's hard on is rubbing through his flimsy night shirt against Buck's belly. He groans into the other man's mouth at the feel of it, Buck taking this as his cue to finally ease his tongue carefully between the blonde's lips. 

Steve's tongue brushes his lightly - the little mechanic is so hot there, soft and wet. Buck groans, his hips shifting minutely, involuntarily. The bulge in the brunette's pants comes to rest lightly against Steve's inner thigh. And there it is, the old familiar panic rising up in the blonde.

The mechanic pulls his head back, puts his hands flat against the Soldier's chest, pressure light but firm to ease them apart.

"Umm, I'm...really tired. I think we should go to sleep," he says, withdrawing his leg. 

Buck looks at him searchingly for a moment, eases his arms from around him. "Everything is alright?" 

"Yeah. Yeah of course."

"Did I… do something wrong? Was the kissing too...sexy?" 

Steve can't help but chuckle at that. "No! No it was perfect." Steve leans back in, kisses the Soldier long and slow. "Goodnight."

_ Fuck._ The blonde lays there for an hour - still mildly horny and very pissed off at himself - before he finally manages to go to sleep. 

He'd seen the bandana on the outside doorknob a few times since Buck moved back in and the more things progress between them, the more often it's there. Steve makes a beeline for anywhere else - helps pour glass and stack block, gets a beer at the pub, heads to one of his friends' shanties, even goes to pull weeds at the ag field - anything to distract from thinking about what Buck may be doing to himself. 

The day after the "accidental boner rubbing" as he'd dubbed it, the rolled square of fabric is there (mocking him) when he goes home to get a part for one of the water pumps. He stands outside the door, biting his lower lip for a long time, thoughts swirling around in his head. He could just walk in there and get the part, right? No big deal. 

_It's just your sort-of-boyfriend possibly fingering himself. Nothing to see here._

Then he hears the very distinctive sound that had been coming from his shanty the night he and Clint beat the crap out of each other at the pub. 

_Unh, unh, unh…_

"Fuck." 

It's almost like another person possesses his body. He sees and feels his hand on the doorknob, but doesn't seem to be actively willing it to move. The same with his feet as they take him inside, his elbow as it pushes the door shut behind him. Buck - panting hard in the exact same position he had seen him in the other time on the floor - turns his head to look over at Steve. With the curtains closed and no lamp on, his irises glow softly in the dim light. He doesn't remove his fingers from himself, just stills his motion. 

For the first time the blonde really let's himself look the brunette over, takes him in slowly from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. His body is so enticing - his legs long, thighs strong, the curve of his ass perfect, the slight pronouncement of his hip bones inviting hands to rest there, beneath magazine ad worthy abs and rounded pecs. His nipples and his cock, the latter deeper purple than the former, are hard even though he isn't touching either. 

Steve has never liked admitting to himself that he finds athletes from certain sports - rugby, soccer, MMA - really attractive. Not that he has only a certain look for men (or women for that matter) that he likes, but he can't help but notice Buck is definitely that type - lean, extremely fit without being comically overgrown, effortlessly masculine. It feels so in line with sexist stereotypes about what "real" men should be - and what people attracted to men are supposed to want - to lust after someone like that. Someone whose form stands in such sharp contrast with everything about Steve's own body. 

But he realizes in that moment he doesn't see Buck as just some specimen of physical idealism or fulfillment of his teen fantasies. He's certainly sexy, tall, muscular, handsome. But beyond that he's struck by how _beautiful_ all the things that make the Soldier different are. How the flush high on his cheeks is lavender instead of pink, the soft electric blue of his eyes, the sharp points of his perfect white canines and the almost identical but slightly smaller teeth next to them just visible. His pale gray skin is flawless, save the circular scars in the center of his torso. 

It also occurs to the blonde that this may be why Buck is attracted to him - because he does not look like anyone else, this unusual mix of features labeled feminine and masculine. Steve wouldn't say he has no self-esteem, no characteristics he likes about his body, but he certainly isn't vain either. Next to the cozy house where his self-worth lives grows a garden of insecurity seeded and watered by a society whose ideals he couldn't conform to right from childhood. It was heavily fertilized by a mountain of shit heaped on it by an abusive psychopath. 

The part of him that believes every bad thing that's ever been said to him wants to ask why the gorgeous, powerful creature kneeling so near would even look twice at him. But the bullheaded part of him - the one that loudly yelled fuck you at the world, the one that made him get up again and again when he was beat down, the one that still called Brock "liar" while the rest of him started to believe - won't hear that nonsense. 

**Nobody gets to tell us what we deserve anymore. **

Buck does more than look twice at him; the Soldier stares at him with awe like he's the center of the universe. In that moment Steve feels wanted and seen in a way he never has. He thinks he'll spontaneously combust if he doesn't do something to release the churning energy it builds inside him. His legs carry him over to stand in front of the Soldier, completely unsure of what's about to happen. 

His eyes never leave Steve's, even as the arm behind him starts to move again, wet little sounds filling the air briefly before his mouth drops open and those incredible noises drown the others out. Steve stares down at him for several long moments - only five or so inches taller with Buck lifted up on his knees - watching the Soldier's face contort in pleasure. 

The mechanic's own cock tents his too-big pants. He easily slips his hand inside the large waistband, suspenders doing nothing to impede his motion, no underwear beneath today either. Steve starts to stroke himself roughly, Buck's eyes widening ever so slightly as he finally breaks their gaze, eyes trailing down to the blonde's hand moving under the fabric. Both of them breathe hard between their groans. 

Buck suddenly grips Steve's wrist with his flesh fingers, eases his hand out of his pants, runs his tongue over it several times in slow, wet stripes from palm to fingertips, watching Steve throughout. He returns it to it's former position. The blonde whimpers at how much better it feels, hunches forward as he pumps himself. Buck catches the little mechanic's lips with his, still careful of his teeth even as he deepens the kiss, as their tongues lightly swirl and press and retreat randomly so they can moan into each other's mouths. 

Buck's right hand goes to the side of Steve's face, the blonde's free arm wrapped around the Soldier's upper back while they both work themselves, quick and needy. The blonde practically hyperventilates as he gets close, Buck easing him back so that he can watch. Steve's dark rose lips hang open, little broken sounds - starting almost gutteral and ending high - escaping him, lids half closed, top lashes ghosting lightly over the bottom ones, face flushed with color. 

The Soldier wishes he could see exactly what the blonde is doing, precisely the way he likes to be touched to make him come apart like this. He moves his fingers slightly inside himself to just the right position, urging himself closer, forcing his own sounds to get loud and desperate. When the smaller man cries out seconds later, eyes slamming shut as his fingers dig into Buck's shoulder, the bigger man quickly moves his free hand to his cock. It's not to stroke it but to pin it to his belly - fingers cupped over the head to contain his release - as he finishes hard with a wail.


	26. Soylent Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang talks details of the upcoming raid.

The Soldier and Nick meet several days before the scheduled raid on the reaver compound. They go over the list of everyone who was due to be up on the next three rotations and pull them in to the office in small groups. They discuss the operation and ascertain if anyone wants to back out. To say this will get messy is an understatement. Reavers are brutal cannibals, mutilating their victims, often cutting pieces off of them while they are still alive. Sometimes they keep captives for long periods, cauterizing a stump or wound where they have removed something, coming back later for more. There is no question what will happen to them if they lose.

Steve, Win, Greta, Clint and Nat meet with the two run planners in the late morning.They are all, with total certainty, in. After how invaluable she was with the Burners, Buck has convinced Nick to let Greta have option to join any run that she wants, asking the older woman to act as his second-in-command. She is a crack shot, unafraid of anything, quick on her feet even compared to someone much younger and always has useful ideas. It did not hurt that she had helped him procure his meal in the Green Place without a hint of judgment. 

None of them, save maybe Nat and Greta, really relishes having to kill anyone. But neither are they in a moral quandary over picking off some violent, semi-rabid flesheaters. Especially ones who are no doubt planning an offensive to come for them in the night or may snatch a group of trashers from the yard. There were so few other options for human meat in that region. Steve knows from past experience that were they to invade Claptrap, one of the first people they would eat would be Violet. Kids are apparently tender. 

Unlike in the Green Place, the small town that the reavers have taken has a lot of low ground cover. Burnt out cars, tool sheds, and all manner of other random junk and small structures dot the community. The entire village is less than a quarter mile square, with maybe two hundred houses. It had hosted a half-dozen businesses and a tiny school to service the neighboring farms. The area has been thoroughly trashed by marauders more than once and about a third of it is partially or totally burnt down. It's not unmanageable with a big group, but there are a lot of places to hide.

It is decided that Win, Steve and Clint will stay atop the trucks with several others, shooting their rifles and arrows from above. It's important to have an elevated view, and to be able to call out to the others who are on the ground. Fortunately, there are very few structures that are over one-and-a-half stories, so they are not too concerned with snipers. That isn't the reavers' style anyway. They tend to prefer hand to hand combat, slashing, stabbing and chopping.

The Claptrappers will bring in four trucks, each half full of personnel, and park them in the center of town in an X formation with their cabs (all with the windows shielded, courtesy of the welder) facing each other. The back doors will roll up, and everyone will file out at once with those atop each truck laying down cover fire if needed. The ground crew will spread out from there in a circle and Clint will make his way up to the roof of the lone three story structure, an old Bank next to their planned spot. He'll be able to walkie multiple people to report from his bird's-eye vantage, using his fanciest goggles to detect body heat and magnify what he's seeing. The extremely expensive compound bow that he carries on his runs has quite a range. He named it Cecilia and no one else is allowed to touch it, not even Nat.

Aerial views from the drone of the community show very little organization to any of the vehicles or trash that lines the streets. Nick feels it can go one of two ways. The reavers could mount a full-on defensive attack once they know they are being invaded, trying to take the Claptrappers out as soon as they exit their vehicles (they are so far from anything else, everywhere silent as the grave in the post-apocalypse with no traffic and no power, and the enemy will hear and see them coming). Or it could be a brutal guerilla fight, having to go building by building to flush them out of their hiding places. Reavers don't retreat - they will fight to the last woman and man - but they have no problem laying in wait until long after they are assumed defeated, only to spring out and slit throats.

Steve has fought reavers before on the road and seen Brock's crew tangle with them. He offers that they will most likely not swarm the trucks the way that the Burners foolishly did. They may seem to behave like animals but they are still people. Their relative lack of high-tech weaponry has encouraged them to use their wits in a way that the blonde would were he in their position. They work together in packs, use trickery, booby traps, human lures and often carry multiple hidden weapons. The reavers have had several weeks to dig in at the town and prepare whatever horrors may await anyone who dares step onto their turf.

Buck is impressed with how knowledgeable Steve is on the subject, how many extremely useful observations he makes. He wants to ask more, to find out specifically what happened in his previous encounters, but he knows this is not the place or time to press the subject. The longer the little mechanic talks, the more a creeping sense of dread spreads through him. He has gone on runs with Steve before, and they have encountered dangerous people, but it was not like this. He is willingly taking him into a war zone, one where he will be brutally tortured and killed if they are not victorious.

"They won't want you two anyway," Clint jokes to Win and Steve. "Not enough meat on your bones." Win flips him off. He's getting used to her knowing what he's saying most of the time and they've started ribbing each other constantly. 

"Sorry we don't have meat arms like you." She mockingly flexes her biceps. "Have better things to do than push-ups all day. Need to keep place running while you stay pretty."

Nat laughs, a guttural woodpecker-fast repetitive sound from her chest that's jarringly dorky coming from such a beautiful woman. Steve and Greta join in. Even Buck chuckles softly from his spot sitting on the edge of Fury's desk. 

"Can you assholes focus for five more minutes?" Nick queries, less than amused.

"_Ooooooo, you're in trouble,_" Clint says, soft and high-pitched. 

"Shut it, Barton," Nick retorts.

"Yes, sir," the archer responds. 

"If you fuck this up, if you trip and fall, if you get cornered, they will tear you apart. And if they have the time, they'll eat you. You may even be awake when they do it," Fury lectures.

"And if we lose, once they regroup they will come here. Claptrap will be left with far less warriors to defend it. They may be overrun." Buck's statement is sobering, even to himself. He thinks about Wanda and Simon trying to protect their little girl. He thinks about Vic, valiantly defending those who would take shelter in the pub to his last breath. They cannot fail in their mission. _He_ cannot fail in his mission. There can be no distractions. 

Steve is a distraction. Even in this kind of setting he cannot keep his eyes off of him for long. What had been staunch determination to succeed has melted into the terror of losing him. Was there any victory in destroying this enemy if he could not protect the person he most needed? The little mechanic is clever and brave, determined, vicious when cornered. But he is not a soldier. Not a warrior. He is small, weak even for a human (though he would no longer ever make such a statement to the blonde's face). Still, if Steve feels he is up to the challenge, who is Buck to tell him otherwise? 

Fury had actually suggested in the earlier meetings that they exclude the mechanic and the welder from this mission. Their skills were invaluable and losing either of them would be a huge blow to the community, especially when until recently there had not been adequate free time for them to start training anyone else on their daily tasks. Win's recent improvement in English had allowed her to start teaching a small group of teenagers. She would still be the most technically skilled and in demand for private jobs, but they could at least do simpler tasks for community works.

Other than the Soldier and Win, Steve had not showed much of anything to anyone. He was a fairly patient person, but he had no background in training others, unlike Win who had acted as a shift supervisor of sorts, showing new people the ropes at the factory. In addition, some of the machines in Claptrap he had designed were more of an art than a science. The welder could do basic maintenance, and replace some of the more simple parts as the person who had helped build them. But the overall blueprints of the machines existed entirely in Steve's mind and without him they would quickly break down.

Nick had acted very put-upon when Clint had urged him to bring the kid back to Claptrap (even though the archer was sure it was all an act, and that Fury felt just as much sympathy for the small blonde as he did). After he had grilled Steve at length about what happened with Brock and his crew, he had given him an interview of sorts, silently ascertaining if he had any useful skills.

"The truck you came here in. Who got it started?" Nick asked, gesturing over to the vehicle. It had been taken from Brock's fleet. 

"Umm, I did. Duh," Steve answered snottily, wrists still shackled to the wall of the Claptrappers' truck. 

"It's hot-wired." 

"And?" the blonde snapped back at him. 

"You don't look like much of a criminal." The older man smirked. 

Steve bent down, pulled a bobby pin off of his jacket pocket with his mouth where it had been stuck over the top. He eased it up to his fingers, using his teeth to help adjust it into a certain shape, then picked the lock on the cuffs with it.

"You were saying?" Steve chucked them and they landed with a rattling thud on the floor boards. He went to work on the lock holding the restraints around his ankles. Fury just watched, amused. 

"It's a manual transmission," he continued. "Not many people under eighty that know how to drive stick these days."

"I used to drive an old repair truck." The blonde was getting frustrated with the lock. The cuffs were an older model, easy to pick, but the ankle restraints were something more fancy and modern.

"You do the repairing, or just drive around someone who did?" The bald man watched in amusement as the kid continued fiddling with the lock, knowing full well it couldn't be forced by that method. 

"My mom had this boyfriend for a while, Taj. I guess she really didn't have time to date, but they stayed friends and he was pretty cool. When I got my working papers, I apprenticed with him. He sent me to classes and stuff too. Once I finished school I worked with him full-time for a couple of years." 

"He still around?" Fury asked pointedly. 

"Died in the first wave. Caught it from some old lady when we went to fix her washing machine. Nobody knew yet, how bad it was." Steve stilled for a minute, thinking not for the first time that he probably carried the bug straight home to his mother and to every other customer that they saw thereafter. Fury read it on his young face like a book.

"How old are you kid? You look like a teenager." Nick finally let a vague hint of sympathy show in his voice.

"Does it matter? Not sure there's anyone left to worry about whether I drink or smoke or vote. Or who has sex with me." He went back to fiddling with the lock. Nick is not a stupid person and he picked up on that last comment right away.

"Is that why you did what you did? Revenge?" Fury queried, referencing their earlier conversation. 

"I did what I did so no one else would have to live with it." He looked up at Nick finally, good eye to good eye, his other already swollen shut. 

Nick remembers that look of determination - and how impressed he had been throughout their entire conversation - quite often. He especially dwells on it when he desperately wants to throttle the blonde. Steve may be small, but he is no wimp (mentally or physically) and far from helpless. That was why he didn't demand that Steve be removed from the run. Instead he casually dropped the suggestion and left it up to the Soldier, hoping that the heated discussion about the reavers would make him - and he had started thinking of _it_ as a him despite himself - see the light in terms of just how in danger the mechanic would be.


	27. In for a penny, in for a pound.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve continues to surprise the Soldier.

Maybe it's the thrill of this new direction their relationship has taken that gets Steve to do it. The two of them are huddled together - in the bed or occasionally at the table when they just can't wait or even on the floor - virtually every night since Steve's little walk in. They vigorously touch themselves while they kiss and moan and clutch at each other, Steve's hand working in his own pants or under his nightshirt. 

Or maybe it's the little high Steve always gets the night before a run. He scavenged alone for fourteen months before meeting Brock and he'd developed such a taste for the searching. The need to think fast and improvise, the triumph of a good find, the adrenaline rush of uncertainty. He was grateful for the safety and comfort that this place provided, but he couldn't deny feeling couped up sometimes, getting the itch to be back on the road living by his wits.

Maybe he's just feeling particularly touchable, watchable, after his first real bath in a long time. The Green Place had developed a system of solar powered electric coils used to heat water in vintage metal claw foot tubs. All six of the units, with curtains strung around, were put in part of the open-sided pavilionesque structure they used for large meetings. He'd been a winner of the first lottery - after that there would be a monthly schedule - and asked Buck to join him. Water conservation is important, right? At least a few other winners had shown up with friends or spouses. 

The bigger man had stripped without a hint of hesitation, slid into the hot water with a soft sound of contentment, arms coming to rest on the high sides of the old tub (his left settling with a soft clank), head leaning back against the edge. He'd lifted his hands, unprompted, to cover his eyes while Steve undressed and got in. They washed themselves in comfortable silence, but he saw the Soldier sneaking glances. The blonde has never been without clothes in front of him, not even shirtless (nor with anyone else since coming to Claptrap). 

Maybe it's the spontaneous thing Steve did before, once they were back at their shanty. Steve has his back to the headboard wearing only a clean nightshirt. Buck sits on the edge, long legs bent with his feet on the floor, in just his sweatpants. The bigger man is reading him something out of a book - he's trying very hard to concentrate but every tiny shift of the Soldier's frame, every move to turn a page, minutely flexes the already distracting musculature of his shoulders and upper back. 

Steve doesn't know what motivates him - courage, lust, their increasing openness - to ease forward, slide his legs to either side of Buck's. His inner thighs are against the bigger man's hips, arms wrapping around his midsection from behind. The brunette keeps reading, using his free hand to lightly rub Steve's arm. 

Buck is warm and he smells good - his usual mildly sweet aroma mixed with the soap and shampoo they'd used. The blonde had brought an empty cup with him, had used it to rinse the suds from the Soldier's hair after he had given it a good scrubbing. The bigger man had bent forward, making a soft hum of enjoyment as Steve lightly worked his nails all over his scalp. After a few minutes of listening to Buck read, Steve can't resist pressing his lips several places along the brunette's spine. A shiver goes through the Soldier, a little _mmm_ slipping out of him. 

"Aren't you supposed to be reading?" Steve questions mischievously. He slowly rubs his cheek next to the bigger man's shoulder blade. He's always surprised at how luxuriously soft Buck's skin is, but he finds an even more delicate spot when he bends a bit to the side and forward, lightly kissing over his ribs not far below his armpit. 

The Soldier resumes speaking as Steve puts the side of his face against the bigger man's back, listens to his heartbeat - normally so slow - pick up speed a bit, to his lungs as they expand and contract a little more quickly. Steve's hands start to trail down the bigger man's belly, brush lightly at his waistband. Buck's voice stutters as the blonde pulls the elastic slightly out with his left, allowing the fingers of his right to ease slowly beneath. He just rests his hand on the flat, firm plain of the bigger man's lower stomach, feeling the Soldier breathe harder, his left arm moving back around the bigger man's waist.

The smaller man is suddenly hit with a memory very like this, but in reverse. _Don't assume this is okay with him,_ one of the many voices of his subconscious whispers as he feels the ghost of Brock's grip on him. They've kissed, rubbed, even lightly grinded against each other's legs and stomachs. But they haven't directly touched like that; Buck has never overtly given Steve permission to. 

"Can I?" he asks softly, voice husky. 

"Please," Buck responds, barely above a whisper, his tone almost pleading.

Steve's hand slides lower, fingers just grazing the thatch of hair at first, then carding through the coarse curls lightly to gently brush the base with his fingertips, teasing. Buck gets hard so fast (every time they do anything, honestly). The blonde can't deny that feels like a compliment, even though he's aware the other man's lack of sexual experience is probably a factor. He grips him only loosely at first, sliding his hand so very slowly to the head and back, making Buck whimper. God, he feels like iron wrapped in velvet. 

He has watched the Soldier jerk his cock - openly, without shame - on many occasions. After what happened the first time they touched themselves together, it didn't seem like an issue to just openly gawk at him while he did it. If anything, Buck appears turned on by the smaller man watching. He doesn't handle himself the same way every time, but there are some common themes - not too rough or too fast, working the whole length, never doing it dry for very long. 

The mechanic has been squirreling away slick stuff to rub one out with for a long time. There's not exactly an endless supply of lube or olive oil or watery lotion in this world, after all. While he hadn't had the urge that much until recently, he was never dead below the waist like some people thought. He has a tiny bottle of unscented massage oil he pilfered on a run sitting in a bin, with various sundries, on a shelf of his headboard. Steve pulls his top half away from Buck to grab the little vial. 

"Would you like me to finish myself?" Buck offers, voice gravelly with need. He sets the book down with his left hand. When he reaches for himself with his right, Steve wraps his slender leg over the Soldier's forearm, pinning it to the bigger man's thigh with his calf. 

"Patience, patience." He peppers kisses along the bigger man's back as he puts a bit of the oil onto his palm and fingers, tosses the sealed container on the bed beside him. 

When his hand finally wraps around Buck again, strokes slow down his length, the bigger man let's out the most delicious, surprised moan. 

"S-S-Steve…?" he manages right after, the blonde's hand now moving back towards the base.

"Yes, Buck?" Steve tries to sound non-chalant, even as he slightly tightens his grip, begins to put a little twist in his motion, careful to have his curled pointer finger rub the sensitive spot just under the head on each pass. 

"You f-feel so good." Buck's hands come back, lightly brush from Steve's knees to his thighs. "I want to touch you too, so badly." 

_Fuck._

"Just relax. Enjoy yourself," Steve coos, working him just a bit faster. 

Maybe it's what Buck says next that makes him do it. 

"I want...I want to look at you," he barely gets out between hard breaths.

Steve stops, presses his forehead between Buck's shoulder blades then slides his hands and legs from the bigger man. He scoots to the side and climbs off the bed, moves to stand a few feet in front of the Solider. Buck is panting lightly, looking a bit confused like he has perhaps said the wrong thing, cock painfully noticable in his pants. His hands grip the edge of the bed as if for dear life. 

The blonde gazes at him a long time, and that's when he decides to do it completely on a lark. He reaches down, grips the hem of his nightshirt, and pulls it off over his head in one swift motion. Buck's eyes go wide with surprise - he stops them when they start to trail down the smaller man's naked body, nervous, unsure. 

"It's okay. You can look. Wherever you want." 

Steve holds his arms out sideways a bit, palms facing the Soldier as his gaze resumes its path. His eyes move side to side as they go towards the floor, mouth slightly open like he's taking in some work of art. They rest a bit longer on the "forbidden zone," between his lower belly and upper thighs, then continue down his legs to feet that - like his hands - are awkwardly big for his small frame. The Soldier is smiling lightly as he looks back up, meeting Steve's sea-blue eyes. 

Then the blonde does something even more unexpected. He turns slowly around, making one complete rotation and then another half, so that when he stills his back is to the bigger man. The Soldier takes in the wiry muscle the little mechanic has built up in his shoulders, arms and upper back. The beautiful shape of his slender neck, the narrow little hips he so enjoys touching. The surprisingly round swell of his cheeks, always hidden in too-big pants or coveralls. 

Just as Buck had suspected before, the scars he had seen on the blonde spread in both directions. They covered his lower and mid back, growing more sparse as they expanded up to stop about halfway over his shoulder blades. They also ran down his buttocks, thinning out towards the soft curves where they met the tops of his legs. There are a few there too, lightly dotting the cream-colored backs of his thighs. They were of all shapes and sizes and seemingly from different sources. He can just make out teeth marks on Steve's left side in the soft meat below his ribs. 

Buck very badly wants to press his mouth to each one, to tell Steve they are _still him_ and as such just as desirable as the rest, that he never needs to hide any part of himself. He does not have the words yet for such things, and knows the blonde does not like to be touched from behind. He sits in silence and waits. 

Steve turns. They give each other a small smile before he comes forward, grips the waistband of the bigger man's pants. 

"Lift your hips," he gently instructs. When Buck complies - putting his weight on his hands - he slides the sweats down and off. Steve is pleased to see his big reveal, ugly as some of it was, has not at all dampened the Soldier's arousal. That gets Steve's libido going again immediately. He steps closer between the bigger man's legs, kisses him deep and slow before whispering, "lean back on your elbows." 

The brunette slowly does as he's told and let's Steve, gripping his hips, ease his body forward towards the blonde, positioning his bottom just a bit off the edge of the bed. All Buck's body weight rests on his forearms, lower back and feet. The mechanic grabs the vial off the bed, pours more of its contents into his hand, rubs it lightly all over two fingers on his left and across his entire palm and the inside of his digits on his right. 

"Is it okay if I touch you here?" Steve questions softly, proud that he manages to sound sultry instead of scared as he moves his left hand low between the Soldier's legs. His fingertips almost, but not quite, brush the bigger man's hole. Buck just nods, open-mouthed, eyebrows up. The blonde strokes over the puckered skin lightly, up and down at first and then in slow circles. He'd done this and more to Sam a few times with the pilot's direction. It's never been lost on him how much Buck likes to touch himself here, his sounds far more unhinged than when he strokes his cock. 

When Buck's face starts to look more drunk than surprised, his breath quickening again, Steve gently eases one finger into him. Fuck, he's hot there and so tight. Breathy little sounds come out of the Soldier as the blonde gently works himself in deeper, starts to slowly thrust. They get louder when he slides the second digit carefully inside to join the first.

The blonde changes angle, speed, depth until Buck begins to make that (by now) very familiar sound. After, he works him for all of two minutes before he starts to get wet there, the mechanic's fingers moving more easily in and out. Steve was vaguely aware that was possible for some men, but he didn't think it was common nor was it anything he'd personally experienced. The blonde can't lie that it gets his own cock even harder - it visibly twitches. That doesn't go unnoticed by the bigger man. 

"You...You can put yourself inside me if you want," the Soldier manages brokenly.

**Fuck.**

Steve moves forward, aligns his own cock with Buck's. He wraps his long, clever fingers around both of them, rocking his hips to slide his length against the other man's, simultaneously pumping them both with his hand. The feel of it is incredible with the oil, especially with how silky smooth the Soldier already is. The blonde is struck by how similar in size they are, even though their shape and coloring is quite different. It had been brought to Steve's attention in the past that his cock looked almost comically large on his small body, even though it was by no means unusually big. 

Buck cranes his neck to watch Steve work them from where he is still resting on his elbows. He moans, long and loud and overwhelmed, again and again, the little mechanic's fingers pushing deep into him with each forward thrust of his body. Steve let's out quick, gutteral sounds as he rolls his hips fluidly, pushing his length into the slick space between Buck's own and his hand as it slides up and down them. He curls his fingers lightly inside the Soldier, better stimulating the sensitive spot there as he speeds up the rhythm of his hand and body, rocking against the bigger man with abandon. 

"Oh!Oh!OhSteve!" Buck basically screams, voice going as high and loud as ever. His release arcs onto his own chin, neck and chest. Steve practically growls at how _fucking hot_ that was to watch and follows suit, hips thrusting forward fast and hard as he lets out a series of deep, short groans, spraying onto Buck's belly. 

The Soldier's breathing slows faster than Steve's, his right arm lifting off the bed high enough so that he can gently rub his fingers along the blonde's hip. The mechanic opens his eyes to see Buck gazing at him like there is no one else in the world. Steve feels like a big, warm hand reaches inside his chest and squeezes his heart so hard it may burst. The feeling terrifies him, knowing with crystal clarity in that moment that he is in love with this person. 

The blonde cleans them both up slow and careful, him noticing - and Buck commenting on - how unalike what had came out of them looked. The Soldier also mentions how different it smells and tastes, running fingers though the blonde's release and bringing it to his face. Steve figures, after everything else he has done tonight, why the fuck not. He swipes a finger tip through Buck's load, puts it near his own nose and then in his mouth. It tastes vaguely like a hard candy without being cloyingly sweet, bringing to mind something emulating fruit but not a specific flavor. 

They fall asleep ten minutes later, wrapped together naked between the sheets.


	28. Mission Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nosey neighbors are the least of Steve's worries.

Steve knew that Buck had been loud the previous evening, but he didn't know how loud until they got to the pub.

"Oooh, Steve...can you pass me an apple?" Clint asks, while they're at the cold line. The smirk on his face tips the blonde off right away something's up. 

"Oh, Steve...can I cut ahead of you?" Greta requests, sliding in front of him in line. She'd started eating with them more since the Soldier had become her number one fan. 

_Were they referencing...?_

"Oh, oh, Steve...can you hand me the ketchup?" Nat queries at the little condiment station.

_Yep. That's what they're referencing._

The mechanic says nothing, cheeks turning pink. He hands her the ketchup with his lips squished together so hard they turn pale.

"Oooooooh, Steve, can you pass salt?" Win, who at the Soldier's behest had started joining them more for breakfast, questions when they're all settled at the table.

"Et tu, Brute?" he asks. She grins. 

Buck picks up on this repetition surprisingly fast, eyebrows getting closer and closer to the center of his forehead the more times the phrase is uttered. By the time it comes out of the welder he's finally figured it out. His eyes narrow.

"You are mocking what I said last night during sexual activity," the Soldier declares at a totally normal volume that all close by can hear. 

Steve puts his face in his hands. Everyone else in their little group breaks into raucous laughter. They keep at it for what feels like a small eternity, the mechanic now leaning on his fists, propped up on his knobby elbows, eyes on the ceiling. His face is getting more red by the second.

"Perhaps if any of you were having satisfactory physical relations, you would not be concerned with mine," Buck says pointedly, not coloring in the slightest.

They all stop laughing but Greta, who only does it louder.

"Sick burn," Wanda says from Buck's right. She offers him a fist and he carefully bumps it, one of the many friendly gestures he's been practicing performing more gently. Being amiable with a super strong, metal handed man could lead to injury. "You noticed **we** didn't feel the need to bring it up," she continues, gesturing back and forth between herself and Simon, who's smirking as he feeds Violet in his lap.

"_You guys_ heard him?" Steve aggressively whispers leaning forward to look at her around the Soldier. They don't live on the other side of the community but they aren't terribly close either.

"_Everyone_ heard him," Phil chimes in from the next table.

Phil lives next to Nick. The thought of Fury hearing what his boyfriend yells during orgasm is more than a little disturbing to Steve. 

"Our _relations_ are more than satisfactory," Clint finally retorts, sliding an arm around Nat's waist.

"Too little, too late." Win, sitting to his right across from Steve, elbows the archer lightly in the ribs.

"I live next door to you two and it's been **pretty quiet ** over there lately," Greta says with a smirk, popping a strawberry between her lips. "In fact," she begins, talking with her mouth full, "the last time I heard you two loud enough to blow the doors off the place was a few weeks ago. I remember because Buck was over alone right before and that doesn't usually happen."

Nat and Clint are suddenly looking everywhere except at Steve and Buck.

"Nosey!" Win points at the older woman. 

"Bored," Greta responds. "Besides, I flagged him down for a card game."

_"Did you make out with him after?_" Nat asks quietly 

The mechanic can practically see the gears turning inside the Soldier's head so hard he's afraid smoke will come out. Buck turns suddenly to stare down Clint and then Natasha, face scrunching up like an irritated child after a few seconds of looking at the redhead.

"Your instruction was not intended to be helpful," the brunette says to her curtly.

"I don't think you wanna have this conversation right now," she smiles, sounding chipper but with an obvious under-layer of tension, as she gives a quick head nod in Steve's direction.

"What's all this about?" the blonde questions.

"I finally beat him at cards. Right, Bucky?" Clint raises his eyebrows at the Soldier. "It's okay, big guy. Nat maybe...misled you a little after she offered to help. But she's very sorry." 

"Very sorry," the redhead repeats.

"And she won't do it again." The archer turns to look at her. She gazes back in silence for a moment, then frowns. 

"And I guess we...I won't do it again," she says to Buck with a sigh. 

The bigger man makes something like a growl in return, then starts eating his food in silence.

They all go their separate ways after to get prepared for the run. Buck leaves the pub with barely another word and heads to Nick's office. Steve knows he and Fury need to finalize mission details and review the most recent aerial footage but he is a tad concerned at how the Soldier practically stormed out. He's gotten fairly used to Buck's glowering silences and figures they'll have the ride when the Soldier finally decides to tell him what's bothering him. They meet back up at their assigned truck an hour later.

"Where's Win?" the blonde asks, adjusting the rifle strap on his shoulder. The gun was ancient but reliable and easier to find ammunition for than some. Greta had shown him how to maintenance it and Buck had also felt the need to meticulously check it over. 

Steve is fully outfitted for the road - cargo pockets on his pants (held up with his most reliable pair of non-stretch suspenders) and jacket packed with supplies and extra ammo, a medium sized hunting knife in a holster strapped to his belt. He has a bandana tied around his neck ready to be pulled over his mouth and nose, goggles high on his forehead to be slid down at a moment's notice. The wind kicks up the sand and dust constantly outside the wall and it needed to be kept out of the eyes and airways. There could also be smoke and flying debris during the fight. He'd tucked his slingshot into the back of his waistband and had one easy to access coat pocket specifically filled with stones, lug nuts and other small, hard objects just for it. The old one that had served as his lone projectile weapon when he was on the road, pre-Brock, had come in particularly handy against reavers.

Clint is there too, leaning back against the cargo box. His arms and ankles are crossed, two full quivers and Cecelia leaning against the tire. He has a few small knives tucked various places, including a switchblade he's rather proud of. Wearing a flak vest over a sleeveless shirt (_show off_), heavy leather gloves, thick black jeans and the boots he'd crushed the would-be rapist's skull with, Steve begrudgingly admits he looks pretty badass.The archer's fancy goggles are strapped on, resting on the top of his head, flattening his eternally spiky hair a bit. The blonde resists the urge to make fun of him because he's still got cologne on.

"I have asked her to stay home," Buck answers flatly, "and go on your normal rounds with you today."

"I...I don't understand," the mechanic responds, eyebrows knitting together as his lips purse.

"You are not going on the mission. You have important work to do here." The Soldier sounds calm, like what he's saying is no big deal. His face is blank.

"What the fuck, Buck?" the blonde demands, stepping into his space, head leaning back to look up into his face.

"Yeah, what the fucky, Bucky?!" Clint chimes in, standing upright. "Baby brother _always_ goes on runs with me. What's this shit about?"

"We've talked and talked about this run at home! I even sat through your stupid fucking little meeting with Fury, not that either of you listened to a word I said, because what do I know about reavers. I guess I just did this to myself." Steve yanks up the left side of his shirt, reveals the bite scar there Buck had seen the night before. "And you planned to bench me the whole time?" Steve's eyes are as fierce as the Soldier has ever seen them.

"No. The decision was made this morning," Buck responds, maintaining the bland, toneless voice he had used when he first arrived.

"By who?! Fury?" the archer demands.

"He did suggest I reconsider including Win and Steve," he looks from Clint to the blonde, "due to your invaluable services within the community..."

"Oh fuck that noise!" the archer cuts in.

"However, I made the final determination." Buck turns to Clint, "I need to speak with Steve."

The archer gestures to the blonde as if to say _have at it_.

"_Alone._" Finally a bit of emotion comes back into the Soldier's voice, cracking his robotic facade.

Clint looks at Steve, who nods, then walks off.

"I can't believe you'd do this! Especially after..." Steve looks around to see if anyone is near, lowers his voice, "_after last night_."

"Last night only cemented my decision," Buck says softly, a look in his eyes that's difficult to read as he gazes down at the smaller man. 

"Because of what everyone said this morning? Are you... embarrassed of me or something? Is that why you don't want me to go?" The hurt on the little mechanic's face twists something in the Soldier's gut.

"No, of course not." Buck carefully takes Steve's hand. "Last night made it even more clear that you need to be protected."

"I can take care of myself!" Steve rips his hand away.

"You are brave and resourceful and clever but you are small -" 

"You're taking Nat! Fuck, she's shorter than me!" the blonde argues.

"She is a trained fighter!" the Soldier's voice gets slightly louder, surprising even himself. 

"I know how to fight! I was on the road over a year, completely alone, after I left Brooklyn."

"You are not a warrior! Not a soldier!" Buck's tone gets uncharacteristically intense, his eyes starting to change color a bit.

"There are a lot of people with fucked up faces who would disagree with you! I always got myself out of a bad spot!" 

"Yes, until Brock captured you and tortured you." There is a simmering rage under the surface of his words, but it is not directed at Steve.

"Don't do that! Don't throw what I told you, _what I showed you,_ back in my face to try to win an argument!" The blonde's face contorts in anger, sadness, disgust.

"This is not an argument. An argument indicates two sides attempting to sway the decision of the other. I do not need to sway your opinion and nothing you say will change mine." The Soldier's voice is firm, final, back in control. It makes the blonde even more pissed off. 

"Oh, so you're the boss man now? Whatever you say goes? **Fuck what I think?**" Steve's voice gets even louder. He's dangerously close to really losing his temper. The mechanic knows it is absolutely unacceptable to hit his significant other, even if it will do all the damage of a bug squashing against a car windshield, and he's been trying really hard to tamp down his violent impulses since the fight at the pub. Still, his fists ball up.

"What _you think_ is of paramount importance to me in every situation, save this one. Yes, I am in charge. Of these people, this mission. I cannot properly perform my duties if I am distracted thinking of your safety." He sounds earnest enough that it cools Steve's rage a bit. 

"What about your safety?" The blonde's voice breaks the slightest bit. He lowers his volume again. _"Reavers use fire." _

Buck laughs softly.

"This of all things you find funny?" the mechanic practically yells. 

Buck reaches out, slow and cautious, and takes Steve's hand again, pulls it to the side of his face. "I am flattered by your concern, but there is no need to fear for me, little mechanic. They are only human and I am very fast." He rubs his cheek side to side across Steve's palm, then places a soft kiss there, just as he had done that first day he admitted his feelings. "The moment I step off the truck upon return, I will come find you." 

With that he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving Steve to stare daggers into his (_dammit, oh so muscly_) back. The mechanic storms back down the line of trucks, plotting to snag Win and go to the yard or get good and drunk. They're sure as fuck not doing rounds. He's almost past the last truck when he hears a familiar whistle from above. He looks up to see the welder with her head over the edge of the trailer roof, the top of the crow's nest she'd built there when they were readying the vehicles just visible behind her. Win tosses him down a rope.


	29. Reaver Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang explores the reaver hide out.

The trucks roll into a town that looks completely empty. Not so much as a tumbleweed graces the streets. They get into formation in the center of the tiny downtown square and everyone disembarks as planned, snipers taking to the rooves to provide cover that appears unnecessary. As planned if the reavers didn't show themselves, three quarters of those on the ground spread out - Buck running lead on a bigger group headed to the school - preparing to search the neighboring buildings. The remainder form a tight circle around the trucks with Greta in command. 

Clint makes his way to the bank - after a brief survey of the surrounding area with the goggles' thermal vision - then makes an impressive jump to grab the edge of the first landing of its fire escape. The ladder to the ground isn't down; he hauls himself up, remembering Win's push up comment. 

_I bet you'd be impressed with my meat arms now!_

He uses the goggles to scan through windows - largely broken - as he climbs. There's no sign of anyone living. The second he makes it to the edge of the roof he has an arrow drawn back in Cecilia ready to fire. He's not alone, two human shapes defined in the thermal vision. 

"It's us!!" the mechanic calls out.

"Fuck, Steve!" Clint eases the string back to a resting position. "Where the hell did you two come from? I was just about to put this through your eyeball." The archer yanks the goggles back.

"Snuck on the last truck. Jumped before others got on top," Win says, scanning what's left of the town with a pair of novelty binoculars they'd found on a run. They look like two crocodiles, each holding a lense in its mouth, with a wide plastic bridge connecting them. Clint liked to joke she was looking up their asses. She'd usually ask if he wanted her foot up his in return. They're too tense for such banter now. 

"Hawkeye, are you in position? Over." The walkie, turned low, comes to life on his belt.

"Affirmative, Two-Three."

"Anything to report?" Buck's voice is eerily calm. 

Clint stares Steve and Win down for a long moment.

"Negative. No sign of hostiles in the structure or immediate area. I'm seeing a lot of debris under the sand though. Watch your step. Over." There were large pieces of what appeared to be plywood and sheet metal flat on the ground randomly strewn about the area. They weren't noticeable from the aerial photos with all the blowing dust partially obscuring them. He could spot a few on virtually every street and a half dozen dotted the town square where their trucks were parked. 

He slides the fancy goggles back down, surveys the side streets, alleys and areas around vehicles below. Even the most expensive thermal vision can't see through thick objects. Anything with a modicum of insulation or density would block out the heat signature behind it. But they're still useful for flimsy structures or people hiding in the shadows.

Buck and his group start to advance on the school, the others breaking into small clusters to search the surrounding buildings. Multiple people report over the open channel that they find nothing. It's dead quiet otherwise.

"Maybe they took off in the night?" the archer suggests, switching over to binocular vision with a few soft clicks. 

"Reavers don't run," Win says. 

"They're playing hide and seek with us. I told Fury this would probably happen." Steve surveys the area with his own small, fold up binoculars. He'd found them in a house with a lot of bird watching books. It was hard to put his finger on why, but they'd made him really sad. He'd kept a few and buried the others with what was left of their decomposed owner. 

More of the ground units call out the all clear from first floors and attics. The roof crew can see them moving past windows as they go room by room. 

"They couldn't have had more than twenty minutes notice someone was coming," Clint says, using the binocular vision to survey farther out. 

"Could have practiced. Ran drills. Hide fast," Win offers. She'd certainly prepared multiple scenarios for the factory being invaded but she hadn't expected them to get the big doors down. Steve was lucky he had a sweet kid face as she'd been very close to burning it off. 

"They could have also had someone watching us, like we were watching them. Just the good old fashioned way." Steve holds up his binoculars. There wasn't a lot of cover around Claptrap, but definitely enough for one very sneaky person. And reavers were nothing if not sneaky. 

"Two-Three, I've got a hole cut in the basement wall at the grocery store," Phil's voice comes over the walkie.

"Ditto in hardware," another ex ops, Hill, responds. "We've got moles. They're burrowing," she adds.

Several others join in the walkie chatter. A lot of the small houses were old enough that they didn't have basements, and the people in them report holes cut directly into the floorboards.

"Over there!" Win points.

"Two-Three. I've got movement on the school roof. Single female, no sign of a weapon. Over." 

"Reaver?" Buck comes back.

"She's wearing a baby skull necklace. You do the math," the archer responds.

"What is in her hand?" Win questions. 

"_It's an airhorn_. Tell them to pull back!" Steve demands. 

"I don't -" Clint starts.

"It's a signal, you idiot! Tell them to pull back!" the blonde yells. 

Win takes aim at the woman as she holds the canister aloft, fires a second too late. The short burst of the horn and the crack of the rifle echo through the vacant town. The woman falls forward off the school, lands with a loud thump below. For a long moment nothing happens, everyone on the street standing at ready, eyes darting around. Steve is thinking about letting out the breath he's holding - he can just make out Buck semi-obscured behind a car, checking the skydiving cannibal.

Then practically in unison most of the plywood and sheet metal are tossed back and dozens of reavers emerge. Some are immediately hurtling already lit molotov cocktails, others raising glass jars and bottles of liquid to light the rags hanging out of them. The first volley lands on and in the fronts and backs of the structures most of the ground crews are inside of. 

"Shit!" Steve runs to take position, yelling to Win, "Shoot the glass before they can throw them!"

He fires and one hoisted vessel bursts, raining liquid fire on the reaver holding it and others around them, several dropping their own lit jars, creating a pool of flames at their feet. Win joins in and they shoot one after the other, causing a similar effect throughout the cannibals. Clint starts lobbing arrows into the ones who aren't badly burning. 

A second wave emerge from the tunnels carrying all manner of hand weapons - machetes, axes, even a few pitchforks - and descend on the Claptrappers escaping the burning buildings. On Greta's command the truck crews fire into the hoarde. Screaming, echoing shots and the sick wet thuds of sharp metal connecting with dense tissue and bone fill the air. Clint scans the area.

"Come on, baby! Where are you? Come on!" He finally spots Nat as she runs from a burning house, jumps through the air, wrapping her legs around a reaver's neck. She uses the force of her weight in the maneuver to flip him over and puts a bullet between his eyes with her pistol as soon as she's on top. The redhead is up in an instant, firing and kicking. 

"Clint, she can take care of herself," Steve says, reloading. "Don't stop firing! The people in the square need cover!" 

The archer goes back to the task at hand, arrow after arrow going into necks and eye sockets with only the occasional miss. It's chaos below, everyone surging, and there are cars and other things in the way. There are so many, but he has a hundred and twenty arrows. More than enough, right? His first quiver comes up empty when he reaches back. Only a few minutes have passed since the airhorn. 

"Fuck!" the archer screams.

He drops the first quiver, straps on the second, falls back into the delicate dance of firing and alternating spots with Win and Steve. Suddenly there's the sound of an arrow cutting the air, different from his own. The bolt skims his cheek, leaving a stinging trail.

"Two crossbows on the western side!" He yells, crouching to dodge a second shot. 

"I've got two more on the north!" Steve responds, joining him.

"One here too!" Win pulls back, narrowly avoiding a bolt. 

"I can't believe they'll reach up here!" Steve reloads his rifle. 

"Modern crossbow'll get sixty, eighty yards with accuracy. Even accounting for the drag of their firing angle, we're only maybe fifty feet up." Clint nocks another arrow. "Let's take those fucks on the north." 

The three of them, crouched, edge closer to the indicated side of the building. 

"On three. One, two…" 

_Schick_

A bolt hits Clint from behind. Steve hears the impact loud next to him. Win whirls to fire on the reaver standing on the ledge, fresh off the fire escape. The woman flies off the building, crossbow in hand. 

"Clint! Clint!" Steve screams next to the bigger man as he hunches forward.

"It's okay, kid. Vest slowed it down. Pull it out." 

The mechanic complies. Only the tip of the bolt head is bloody, a small hole in the flak jacket a bit to the right of his spine just under the spot where the quiver angles across his body. It would have went into his kidney, probably a death sentence without quick medical care. 

"Oh fuck! I'm so glad you're okay!" Steve throws his arms around the bigger man's neck, head resting on his shoulder.

"Okay, kid. Okay, don't get all sloppy on me." Clint grins, pats the blonde's arm. 

"Kiss each other later! We have company!" Win yells, firing right after. Reaver's are pouring off the fire escape onto the roof. Steve takes a firing position on one knee, just like Greta taught him, takes his shots carefully. Clint is up on his feet firing arrow after arrow into faces and throats in quick succession, avoiding body shots due to their leather clothes and homemade armor. They're fast picking off the oncoming cannibals but not fast enough. 

A woman with a bone through her septum tackles Win. They struggle for the rifle. Steve picks off the man, wearing a full human rib cage strung together with wire, that tries to bury his axe in the welder's head. Win wraps her pointer and ring finger around either end of the nosebone and yanks, hard, tearing it free with a spray of blood and pained squawk from the reaver. As soon as she can get two hands on it the welder slams the butt of her rifle into the other woman's face, quickly turns and fires on a second that runs at her with a large knife, then shoots the first before she can recover. 

Steve and Clint have their own new friends to contend with. The archer cries out as a guy bites off part of his left ear, a woman grabbing his right arm as she stabs him in the shoulder. He jams an arrow into the man's side, pulling forward hard to cut a wide swath between two ribs into the cannibal's lung. Clint kicks the woman off the building, landing a foot solidly to her chest. He shoves the guy off too as he stumbles backwards, blood foaming from his mouth. 

The archer had lost his bow over the side when he got tackled. He pulls the knife from his shoulder, throws it into the temple of one of the guys on Steve. Buck had taught him that. The blonde has a whole office carpool on him. He's staying low, taking kicks and punches as he blocks his head with one skinny arm, dodging machete swipes. He slashes one guy's belly with the hunting knife Greta had given him, and shown him how to sharpen, his intestines bulging through the wound. Blood sprays onto Steve's jacket and face as he stabs a woman in the leg, right in the femeral artery - Buck had told him blood pumped easily through there, kissing over it softly when they were alone in the shanty. 

Win - finally out of ammo - clubs one of the reavers on the mechanic from behind with the butt of her rifle, then smashes it into his head again and again until he's twitching on the ground. Steve springs up, burying his blade under a guy's chin. The man falls back, taking the knife with him. His rifle is ten feet away and there's no opening to grab it so he dives on the nearest reaver, buries his teeth in their neck and pulls back til the flesh tears. He didn't actually learn that from Buck but the similarity isn't lost on him. 

_Fuck, just let him be okay._

The gunfire below has become more sparse, but hasn't ended. The blonde can still hear the smash and whoosh in the distance of firebombs being tossed. He links his hands together and swings the double fist into the chest of the bleeding cannibal, knocking him off the roof. Clint is in a hand to hand scuffle with a huge guy and Win is tangling with the last reaver on the ground. 

The welder grabs the hair of the woman under her, as she stabs Win lightning quick in the side with a stilletto-like object, and smashes her head into the ground over and over. She screams while she does it, keeps forcing the broken skull up and down long after the other woman is dead. Steve jumps on the back of the man tussling with Clint, gets him in a chokehold long enough for Clint to pull out his switchblade, open it expertly one handed and stab the huge cannibal in the heart. 

They all fall back on their asses, panting, covered in sweat and blood. 

"Bet you're happy to see us now," Steve rasps out.


	30. Fire, to destroy all you've done.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck finds focusing on his mission difficult.

The ride to the reavertown is painfully devoid of distraction for Buck, sitting in the back of the box truck with Greta and some of the others. With nothing to focus on save the nervous, idle chatter of the few who bother to speak, the hum of the ground beneath the tires lulls him deeper into his thoughts. All he can see at first is the pained and angry looks on Steve's face during their conversation right before he had left. They fill him with guilt, sadness, worry. 

At Gurminder's suggestion the Soldier had taken to examining his emotions as they occur, picking them apart mentally and naming them. It made it a little easier to keep from being overwhelmed when he felt several at once. The doctor had even given him a book, one of the few things of his that the Burners had not destroyed, that talked about how to identify feelings - what did a certain physiological or psychological reaction or sensation mean. It had seemed absurd at first but after he worked at it for a while it greatly cut down on his level of frustration and reduced his outbursts.

The blonde had been quick to apologize the last time he had offered harsh words to Buck, yet the Soldier knew the fault for this disagreement was largely on himself. It was not right for him to make decisions for others, devoid of their input, as had been done to him for so many years. Yet his intentions were not malicious - he had only wanted to keep the little mechanic (and Win) from harm. He realizes suddenly that he had called the blonde the diminutive nickname at the end of their discussion. The bigger man had long referred to Steve as that in his head, yet never allowed himself to say it, unsure if the smaller man would find it condescending. 

His mind searches for an escape from his fears, going back to the night before. The memory of their calm, silent time in the big tub and the feel of the blonde's hands in his hair is pleasant. Something so simple and yet the warm feeling he had now felt so many times had blossomed in his chest. Buck had yet to name that feeling, but knew the frequency with which it occurred frightened him. Its hold on him remained through the night and into the next morning and had weighed heavily on his decision about the mission. 

The unexpected reveal of the blonde's body had only made things worse. The Soldier had long wanted to see what was hidden beneath his nightshirts - if the freckles spattering his shoulders and speckled light across the tops of his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose travelled anywhere else. To know the shape of his musculature and skeletal structure, if he had hair in any of those unseen places and what color it was. He understood that some of this was driven by lust and some by simple curiosity, but mostly it was motivated by his need to _know him_. To know every part of him, to be close and trusted in a way no one else was. 

The little mechanic had given him that and then so much more. 

The Soldier had penetrated and stroked himself many times and he greatly enjoyed doing it, even more so when he could kiss and touch Steve while the blonde sought his own pleasure. Yet never had it been so arousing or satisfying as when Steve had done it for him. The way the mechanic's fingers moved inside him was indescribably amazing and had drowned out his thoughts in a haze of sensation; he was as shocked as the other man when he had offered himself up to be entered. 

He was curious why Steve had not accepted, but he was not disappointed; the sexual act the blonde had performed after - with his hand around them both, rocking their bodies together - had felt incredible. Buck was unaware that maneuver existed; the human sexuality book had not mentioned it. Even here on the cold metal floor of the box trailer, prepared to go to battle, the thought of how intense his orgasm had been - and of Steve's that promptly followed - makes him start to get hard. 

After they had both reached release and cleaned up he had expected the blonde to cover himself, but he had made no attempt to do so. Waking with him, Steve's soft milky skin exposed everywhere and against his own, made him feel close to the other man in an entirely new way. With permission, he ran his fingers lightly all the places he could easily reach, learning the feel of him, watching how the smaller man reacted to the touch on different parts of his body.

Buck's hands ranged down the little mechanic's thin but corded arms, over his narrow boney chest and flat firm belly - there was just a bit of hair trailing below his naval to the nest of sandy light brown curls around his member. They are the only places he has hair save what is on his legs, forearms and armpits, all of which is quite light, some if it almost white. The Soldier massages over his shoulders and back, easing down to lightly cup his buttocks (and that was met with a look of surprise and only thinly disguised arousal from the blonde), then lower to brush the backs of his thighs. Buck felt the many different textures of the scar tissue under his flesh fingers.

"I enjoy touching you so much," the Soldier had offered softly, needing the little mechanic to know how much he liked all the parts of him. 

Steve wore a little smile through it all, amused at the brunette's curiosity. He had also giggled - a bright, high sound - when the Soldier's fingers grazed feather light over his ribs. It had taken the smaller man some time to explain "being ticklish." Buck recognized in his own way that choosing to be unclothed together after being forced to disrobe for the agendas of others was an important thing for them both. Letting his body be explored like that was most likely something the blonde had not done with anyone else. It made the warmth flare in the Soldier's chest even stronger. He knew with certainty he had to keep this person, and what they have together, safe. 

Buck swears he smells Steve when he exits the truck, a faint but seemingly fresh hint of him in the air like when he entered a room after the other man had just left it. The Soldier assumes he is picking up the scent somewhere on himself, possibly in his hair, or on one of the other people present such as Clint. Still, the longing it inspires brings back all of the negative emotions from earlier. He wonders for the thousandth time what he will be returning home to, if in his attempt to protect what they have he has irreparably damaged it. 

_So much for removing my distraction,_ he thinks as the mission advances. 

Suddenly the situation at hand changes and he is in the thick of a fight. Buck manages to avoid the first wave of reavers and their fire, quickly dispatching many of them with his automatic weapon and dodging the few volleys that make it from the reavers' hands. When the second wave of cannibals swarms him, over a dozen trying to wrestle him down and take the gun away as many others bash and chop at him, he is suddenly stabbing and hurtling them in every direction. He unclips one side of the mask, bites his attackers with abandon.

Normally he would not be so blatant with what he is in front of the others, but there are so many of the enemy and there is no time for propriety when lives hang in the balance. He tears off limbs, puts his metal fist through skulls, rips out jugulars with his teeth. There is so much blood on him by the time he has a moment to pause his movements that it runs off him in little rivlets, dripping down onto the dirt below. 

More reavers come, keeping their distance, making hand signals and strange calls to each other. One emerges from a shed with a girl, no more than twelve, held up like a shield with a knife to her throat. The man is moving her slightly back and forth and adjusting his own position constantly and at random, making it difficult for Buck to ensure a kill shot - he fears simply injuring the man will lead to him fatally cutting the girl. Others dart at the Soldier from their hiding places, distracting him with the need to dispatch them, as the cannibal backs away with the child. 

The Soldier pursues them into an alley, weapon trained in the general area of the reaver's head, waiting for that split second with a clear line of sight. The cannibal is weaving back and forth so much that the bigger man does not notice him sidestep a certain area on the ground. Buck walks over what he realizes too late is a heavy tarp covered in sand, plummeting into a concealed pit lined with spikes, impaling himself several dozen places. The reaver looks down from above, laughing. 

Buck breaks his flesh arm free - yanking it sideways and busting off two sharpened wooden sticks, nearly two feet of each sticking through his bicep - and shoots the man between the eyes. He and the girl topple into the pit. The Soldier manages to get his metal arm, still without a scratch, up quick enough to catch her before she lands on the spikes. A long metal rod with the end bent into a hook juts down into the hole, wraps around the strap on his weapon and yanks it free from his injured arm while he is distracted. 

A reaver leans over the edge and attempts to shoot his own weapon at him. It will not fire. He lowers the girl next to him at the side of the pit, carefully avoiding the sharp poles sticking out of him. There is just enough space for her small body to crouch between the dirt wall and his feet. He pulls both sticks from his arm and hurdles them into the cannibal still uselessly trying to fire the automatic weapon. Unfortunately when they slump over dead they do not drop the gun into the pit. 

More of them appear from above. Buck shows his teeth, growling, yanking spike after spike out of himself and slinging them at those above, impaling several. He sees them start to light the rags hanging from their accelerant jars. There are still so many spikes in him at odd angles - through his feet, legs and torso, many of them made from sharpened rebar and other pieces of twisted metal rather than just wood - so he cannot simply break free and jump out. 

The first fire bomb that falls he is able to smash with a swing of his metal arm, little droplets of liquid flame raining down all around him. Suddenly there are a half-dozen of them lobbed into the pit nearly simultaneously. He curves his body over the girl protectively as several burst on his back, another falling behind him and lighting up the bottom of a pantleg. The vest, slacks and boots will take a while to burn through but some of his exposed parts are in flames, the skin blistering and scorching darker by the second. 

The Soldier grits his teeth at the searing pain from his flesh arm and the back of his neck. Accelerant burns on parts of his metal arm as well and the intense heat transferred through to the delicate tissue inside is awful. But if he moves, if the child is struck with a firebomb, she will die. The girl coughs, the pit filling with acrid smoke. He pulls his dangling facemask from its remaining mount, the air vent in the front already closed to keep out the dust, and pushes it over her face. 

As soon as she complies with his order to hold it tight, he digs frantically in the side of the pit, covering her in earth as two more firebombs burst on his back. One of them sets the ends of the hair at the base of his skull and crown of his head on fire. The burning trails of the liquid slide beneath the vest in several places and he screams in agony, a terrifying, animalistic sound. 

Once the girl is buried, protected, he shoves his arms in the soil of the dessicated pit wall, then throws more earth onto his back and legs. Buck barely has the flames out before another volley rains down on him and he is engulfed anew, the superheated air scalding his lungs. The Soldier knows he needs to get out, to pull free of the remaining spikes, but his body - losing blood from multiple wounds and severely burnt - is going into shock as he tries to remove more of them. His hands stop obeying him. 

Suddenly there is no pain and the world grays, the smashing of another bottle and the crackling of the flames that consume him quieting into the background as he starts to go slack. The Soldier's last thoughts before everything goes black are that he will not get to apologize to the little mechanic or tell the blonde he was correct about everything. Buck knows Steve's pride well enough to believe the words "you were right" would mean more to him than "I love you."


	31. Sunday stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang goes looking for their compatriots.

Clint's walkie is toast after the rooftop tussle. Steve has a whopping five bullets left for his rifle, Win zero, and the archer about three dozen arrows (but his bow is on the sidewalk). As much as all of them would love to stay high above the battle raging street to street below, their friends are in real danger and it is only a matter of time before more of the cannibals ascend. At least on the ground they have more room to maneuver, the archer can grab Cecelia and they can possibly get more ammo from their compatriots. The trio head down the fire escape, Steve running point despite Clint's protests. He has to shoot two more reavers, and their progress halts when the building shakes lightly from several explosions in the distance, but at street level most of the fighting has headed elsewhere. 

Only the rooftop snipers are left to defend the vehicles from the cover of their crow's nests, hatches beneath them so they can pop back into the truck if needed the same way they'd gotten on top. Greta must have taken her crew out to help the others. A quick exchange reveals that none of the truck toppers have ammunition that will work in the welder's or the mechanic's rifles. The archer gets his bow back and Win finds a nail studded baseball bat on the corpse of a reaver. They are saddened to see a few of their allies dead on the ground (and they have been stripped of their guns, possibly by the truck team as they advanced). 

"We find Nat, then we head to Buck, regroup, make a plan," Steve says as he grabs several knives off the dead and slides them into his belt. He'd recovered his own from the cannibal on the roof and returned it to its holster, cleaned of blood like Greta taught him. Win follows suit, grabbing multiple blades off the maroon-stained earth and putting a hammer through the strap on her pants after she shakes the wet brains off of the head. The blonde pulls out his slingshot and readies a fat, short screw to fire. 

The area a block out from the square is utter chaos - they can hear the sounds of fighting inside and in between buildings around them. Multiple structures are fully engulfed and there are bodies in the sand everywhere, including a number of severely wounded. If they are reavers, Clint helps them along - its ugly business killing someone when they're down, but it has to be done. If they're Claptrappers, they carry them back to the trucks where a few wait in the safety of the boxes to provide medical care. It takes them ten minutes to find Nat. She is in the center of a circle of bodies piled three to four deep, covered in blood, reaver machete in hand as she chops the head off a final attacker. 

"Hey, girl. You come here often?" Clint calls to her from behind. 

She turns, machete raised, then drops it as she breaks into hysterical laughter. The redhead jumps on him over the small wall of corpses, arms around his neck and legs wrapping his waist, kissing him like her life depends on it. Steve and Win can't help but grin despite the situation. They meet up with Phil and Greta - both bloody but with only minor injuries - minutes later. 

"Everyone's scattered! We couldn't stay clustered with the firebombs," the older woman informs them. "There's so many more of the bastards than we thought and the tunnels seem to run everywhere. They hunker down and then pop out. I've got a solution for that though!" 

She opens her jacket to reveal a row of grenades, takes one off, pulls the pin and tosses it in the nearest reaver hole. It explodes with an impressively loud rumble as the tunnel collapses, dirt, debris and body parts fanning up from the entrance. Well, that explained the several booms they'd heard as they descended. 

A horrific, almost inhuman scream suddenly fills the air. _Buck._

Steve runs in the direction of the sound at full speed, Clint yelling at him to wait as he and the others give chase. He's quick - little and slippery - as he snakes through burning debris, over cars and between people desperately fighting for their lives. The first pull of his slingshot launches the screw, luckily pointy end first, through a reaver's eye as he runs past - they were very close to bashing Hill's brains in and it drops them where they stand. Win and Nat are in quick pursuit, slashing and bashing where necessary. The archer fires into reavers as they run at his friends, snatching the arrows back out as he passes the bodies as he'd done when they'd gotten down into the town square. Unfortunately a lot of the recovered arrows aren't reusable, heads snapping off in the dead or shafts bent. He adds the ones that look passable to his quiver as he goes. 

Greta and Phil take up the rear, him covering her as she blows reaver tunnel after reaver tunnel. In some places the ground above completely collapses, creating a deep impression in the earth. When she's out of grenades, she starts pulling dynamite from her pack. One quick cannibal tosses a stick back out of their tunnel - it lands under a car, launching it into the sky, glass and twisted metal flying in every direction. An ex ops in body armor and a helmet shields the older woman from the debris, then goes back into the fight. 

Not even the massive blast slows Steve down. He finally spots a group of reavers around what looks like a pit in the ground, hurtling in Molotov cocktails. The Soldier's distinctive automatic weapon is on the ground near the edge of the hole, which is billowing black smoke. The blonde launches object after object into the glass jars the reavers hold aloft with his slingshot, spraying the accelerant on his enemies. Two really light up and topple into the hole - he hears them get impaled before he can see in and it dawns on him the pit is an elaborate trap. One deep and dangerous enough to catch a super soldier so you can rain fire down on him from above. 

_No. Nonononononono!_

The blonde shoots car lugnuts, marbles and rock-hard hunks of sharp edged glass block scrap into the faces of the cannibals. One runs at him, tackling him to the ground. The mechanic has a knife out of his belt and into their side fairly quick and when they pull back, howling in rage and pain, he takes a second from his waistband and crams the blade just under their sternum. Win runs up, kicks the knife deeper into the man's chest. Her bat crashes into his skull as soon as he's on his back, just to be sure. 

Nat dropkicks a cannibal hard in the stomach then breaks their neck in a swift, double-handed move when they bend over. Arrows fly in quick succession into the remaining few reavers as Steve scrambles to the edge of the pit. Buck is limp, body held upright by a dozen sharpened spears and metal poles crammed through him. He is burning. 

Clint tackles the blonde as he tries to jump in. "Are you fucking insane? That's a tiny pond of liquid fire filled with spears!" 

"I have to help him! I have to help him!!!" he screams, flailing against the bigger man. 

Win grabs a large piece of sheet metal laying on the ground twenty feet away, the former ceiling to a reaver hole. "Help me!" she yells at Nat. They use the wide flat object to scrape sand piled up next to the buildings into the hole again and again until the flames inside - including on Buck - are smothered. 

Clint shoves Steve down again, jumping up quick. "Let me! Everything's scalding hot. I've got gloves!" He eases down into the pit, puts his ear close to the bigger man's mouth to listen for breath. "He's alive." He starts trying to remove the spikes through his friend. 

"There's bolt cutters in the truck!" Greta yells to Win. 

The welder takes off, Nat joining to watch her back. Steve slides into the pit, wraps his coat sleeves over his hands to help Clint pull a blackened, smoking pole out of Buck's thigh. The women are back minutes later sweaty and panting, handing over the tool. It takes Clint and Steve together to force the cutters through the thicker rods, but eventually they're able to free Buck, Greta joining in the hole to help hold him up as they pull the last few. The three of them below and Phil, Win and Nat above manage to get him out of the pit. 

Once they're all back on the street, Steve tilts his head toward the school - its one of the few structures that isn't on fire. "There!" 

Four of them lift him, Greta and Phil providing cover with their few remaining bullets. The fighting seems to be dying down and other Claptrappers are finally radioing in on the older woman's walkie. They move Buck inside, trying to get defensible cover to check his wounds, but many of the rooms are barricaded or boarded shut. They bust into the gymnasium, cutting the chain on the double doors with the bolt cutters. 

There are people inside, nearly a dozen chained in various spots to the ancient heat radiators and pipes. Greta guards the door into the hallway as Phil sweeps the perimeter, ensures the doors to outside at the back of the room are also chained and padlocked. 

"Stay the fuck back!" a man yells as Steve and the others come near. He's on his knees holding an old woman behind him, protecting her body with his, his fist raised with a length of chain wrapped around it. His friend looks terrified and confused, babbling nonsense. They're both restrained at the wrists, ankles and around the waist.

"Yeah, yeah, calm down. We're the good guys, kid!" Clint responds as they carry the Soldier over to a wrestling mat on the ground a few feet from the prisoner who had spoke.

"_Holy fuck._ Holy fuck! Winter? **Winter?!**" the guy exclaims. Steve finally turns to look at the captive - he's a bit older than the blonde but not much, caramel complexion, ringlets in his dark chin length hair. He has big green eyes. "What did you fucks do to him?" 

"He's our friend, dipshit. The cannibals lit him up," the archer snaps. 

"Shit! Oh shit. Let me loose!" the young man requests. 

"We'll get to you! Patience is a virtue," Nat barks. 

"I can help him! I've seen him get burnt before!" The captive crawls to the end of his lead chain and onto the edge of the mat.

"Woah there, pretty boy! You weren't invited to dance with the prom queen." Nat puts a knife to his throat. 

"It's cool! It's cool! I know him! We're... associates." The younger man has his hands held aloft, like it's a stick up, the redhead's blade making a small dent in his skin. "He got lit up before. It wasn't nearly this bad though. Just part of his shoulder and upper back. Bullet wounds, stabs, that's nothing to him but this..." 

"You know what he is?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, yeah I do. A hundred percent. You're wondering why he's not healing, right? He told me a deep tissue burn kills the nerves, destroys the blood vessels. If it's bad enough there's no blood flow so the skin can't repair itself. He'd have to wait for it to basically die and slough off and then he'd grow more but that takes weeks." 

The young man removes Buck's goggles - they're partially melted to his face and some skin comes with them. The bigger man groans in pain, the first sound he's made save the wheeze of his labored breathing.

"Sorry, buddy, sorry!" the younger man soothes. 

"Buck? Buck?!" Steve scoots in closer. The Soldier's eyelids flutter but don't fully open. 

"So that's your big solution? Leave him horribly fucked up for a month and hope he sheds it like a giant sunburn?" the archer demands.

"Fury can't see him like this," Phil chimes in. "I think you know that." Nat looks at Clint, nods. 

"Before, he cut it off. The charred skin. He had me help with what was hard for him to reach." The younger man is working on removing Buck's vest. "We need to get all this melted shit off him and then...we basically need to flay the burnt parts." 

"Shut up, new guy!" Win exclaims. 

"You're out of your goddamn gourd, kid! Been hanging out with that dementia case too long." Greta gestures to the old woman, in heated conversation with a blank spot on the wall.

"Listen, Granny Clampett, unless you've got a PhD in vampire medicine I suggest you shut the fuck up!" the younger man yells at her, unclipping the last strap on Buck's vest. "I lived with him for six months. I know what I'm talking about."

"What's his favorite food?" Steve asks.

"He really likes fruit," the captive responds immediately.

The mechanic pulls a knife from his belt, holds it up in front of himself, stilling the young man's motion for a long moment. "Let's do what he says," the blonde finally rasps, offering it handle first to the prisoner. 

"Are you fucking insane?!?!" Clint screams. "We don't know this guy from Adam. He could be a reaver. It could be a trick!" 

"Yo, busted ass Robin Hood, I've literally pissed in these pants and I'm just sitting around in them. You think one'a them would be that devoted to their act?" 

"He does stink," Nat adds. 

"We're doing this!" Steve takes another long knife from his belt, starts to cut Buck's slacks away. Win goes to work on removing his boots. All of the punctures are healed, new skin there in circles that stand in stark contrast to the black and red flesh around them.

"There's just one problem. Judging from those marks, he's already lost a lot of blood and he'll lose a ton more when we cut him," the young man says, "which I'm sure you think isn't a problem for him, but when he loses enough he gets a little crazy." 

"Crazy how?" Clint asks.

"Feral. His need for blood'll be enormous and he won't be himself. He could attack us. Last time we took a lot less skin than we'll need to now, and he still got hangry really quick." 

"He obviously didn't kill you though," Steve replies.

"But he wanted to hurt me. I could see it. He prepared." 

"Prepared?" Win questions. 

"Yeah, he kept alive some of the guys that burnt him, had them tied up nearby. As soon as he was healed, he pushed me out of the room and then…Well, it was a huge mess when he finally came out." The prisoner pulls the last strip of the vest away. "I guess he'd got lit up bad enough at some point before that he knew that would happen. Lucky me. He was still super hungry after too, even though he was in control."

"So we pull in some reavers. There's bodies everywhere," Greta offers.

"I can do you one better," the young man responds.


	32. Blood in the cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang tries to help Buck and Steve wonders who the fuck this handsome stranger is.

After Steve and the others free the prisoners, the young man entrusts his elderly friend to one of the women that had been chained nearby. He leads the mechanic and his friends, save Win who stays to watch Buck, to a side office with a large floor to ceiling equipment locker. There are three men inside chained to the wall of the metal grid structure, all in some semblance of body armor and leather; they've clearly been beaten senseless and picked over. Their boots are gone and they each have several toes missing. One has bite marks on his face and another is missing an ear. Clint finally remembers his own, reaches up to find a large chunk of it gone. It hurts like hell but it's clotted at least. 

Steve and Greta recognize the remnants of the white X painted on each prisoner's chest immediately.

"Some of those shitbirds that attacked you in the desert," the older woman offers, pointing to the mark. She had seen the corpses heading back from the yard. "I say we listen to the kid, give Buck these marauding bastards. A few less scumbags in the world." She spits in their direction.

"You're gonna die for that, bitch," one of the men says to the older woman. 

"Not before you, fucko," she responds. 

The younger man snags a set of clothes - sweats and a thermal shirt - folded up on a chair. There's even socks. He shakes the dust out of it all and strips out of his filthy clothes, down to his birthday suit, behind the desk. Using some wetnaps he found in a drawer (along with the unlocked office door's key), he cleans up quick before putting the new-to-him clothes on. Steve can't help but notice in addition to being absurdly cute he's in good shape, his compact body fairly muscular and broader than the blonde's. _How exactly does this guy know Buck? _

"So we unlock the cage, bring Winter...Buck...in, skin him and then bounce quick, closing every gate and door between us and him," the young man offers. "Normally it wouldn't slow him down much, but he'll be weaker until he eats. Hopefully after he does, he'll be back to his senses. If not, we run like hell and hope there's enough of those cannibal fucks outside still breathing for him to get his head back on straight."

"Hey, we don't know these people. I mean, that one's a dick clearly," Clint motions to the man that threatened Greta, "but just because they've got some X painted on them doesn't mean they should all be..._vampire chow_." Clint crosses his arms as Steve picks the lock on the cage. "By the way I'm really pissed off you lied to me about that, like, a whole bunch of times. I mean...I had my tongue..." the archer trails off as he sees Nat shaking her head violently out of the corner of his eye. 

"They destroyed our settlement then tried to get in good with these reavers by _giving us to them_. The country jamborees in this town only serve barbecue, if you know what I mean. Isn't that right, fumehead?" The former prisoner kicks the boot of one of the X-marked captives with his worn out sneaker. They're a sallow, twitchy fellow with bulging eyes. "Reavers just don't _give a fuck_ about deals though, do they?" He smirks at the guy, glaring up at him. "When we showed up the cannibal queen ate their point man's face off in front of us while he was still alive and her people put the rest of these fucks in here. They started taking some of them each time they took some of us. My only consolation to the fact that these shits got dozens of my neighbors killed is that the cannibals already ate two thirds of their friends too. No great loss to humanity there."

"Fuck you, beaner trash. Your whore mother should have stayed in Mexico instead of squeezing you out on American soil," the bug-eyed captive replies. 

"Okay, definitely let Buck kill that guy," Clint sneers. 

"Actually my mother was Guatemalan and my father was Puerto Rican," the young man responds, unfazed, like he's heard it all. He turns to Steve. "Last guy that called me a racial slur Winter practically ripped in half. He didn't even know what it meant, he just didn't like his tone. He really hates assholes. That's how I know you're good folks." He flashes his pearly whites at Steve.

_Great, he goes from cute to gorgeous when he smiles. Can I put him back where I found him?_

"Do _you_ have anything douchey to say? I'd really like a clean conscience about this," Clint addresses the third captive. "I mean you do have a toucher face, but I'm not sure that's a good enough reason." Clint's left eyebrow cocks. 

"A _what_ face?" Nat snorts.

"You know, the face of a toucher. Someone who touches people in a not right way," the archer responds. "Like the type of guy who gently brushes your ass while you're in line ordering a pastrami on rye at Jeff's."

"That's oddly specific," the redhead returns. 

"Why would they wanna get in good with reavers?" Steve questions, circling back to the matter at hand. 

"To prepare the way for glory," the third man in the cage offers suddenly. 

"Man, I hate riddles," Clint responds. "What does that mean, dickwad?"

"If the ones with the X know a big chunk of our fighters are here, keepin' busy with the cannibals, their own group could attack Claptrap while the defenses are weak," Greta offers. "Phil, you need to radio Fury. And don't lie to me that you can't - I know you've got that fancy doohickey on you to report back to him." She walks up to him, pulls a knife quick as lightning and puts it to his throat. "And not one fucking word about Buck. Not one." 

Phil nods and she backs down. "I need to go to the roof to use it." 

She nods at the other freed captives. "Take them with you. If you can see a clear path to the truck, get'em there." 

"The reaper has not yet arrived. He sits and waits and bides his time," the third captive continues, "but he will always finds you."

"Who are we talking about again?" Nat asks, sounding mildly bored.

The man juts his arms up as far as his restraints will allow, one forearm facing forward and crossing over the other to form an X. "CROSSBONES!" he screams, grinning wildly.

"Crossbones!" the fumer agrees. 

"Crossbones," says the racist. 

"Crossbones?" the redhead questions. All three men say the name again. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Clint responds. "We get it. Who the fuck is that?"

"Crossbones is their leader," the freed captive offers. "I only saw him once, at a distance. The X, they copy that from him. He has a big one painted on his body armor. White shit on his mask too. They say he has powers. That he like...mutated or something. Which would have sounded nuts to me before I met Winter but now..." the young man trails off. 

"He's coming. He's coming! He won't be denied! CROSSBONES IS NIGH!!!" the zealot continues from the cage. 

"Crossbones!" the fumer repeats. 

"Crossbones," says the racist. 

They decide to gag them all with jump ropes, then head back out into the gym to get Buck. The young man turns to Steve, both of them on their knees with Win and Nat at different quadrants of their friend's prone body, ready to lift him. 

"The queen, she was saving Muriel's granddaughter and me for victory dinner. Did you see a little girl out there anywhere? They took her earlier." 

"Sorry, no," the mechanic responds. 

"Pit," the Soldier rasps. 

"What, buddy?" The young man leans closer.

"Girl. Pit. Under...dirt," Buck manages. "No air."

"There was a pile on one side, but I thought he was trying to put himself out. I'll go check the hole!" Clint runs out. Steve knows its been a rough day when the archer doesn't even giggle after uttering those words. 

They carry the Soldier to the cage. After a few minutes of discussion, the young man goes over the basics of the plan again. 

"Okay, we have to make this quick. Get as much as you can, but it doesn't have to be flawless. We can clean up the rest later when he's in better shape. The second I say break, we run like hell. I'll shut the cage once we're out. Steve, right?" The blonde nods. "Steve, you head straight to that office door and be ready to lock it as soon as we're through. The keys are in the doorknob. Then its out in the hall and the old lady chains the door. That's three layers he'll have to bust through if he comes at us. Normally that's not a problem for him, but he'll stay pretty weak til he eats." He lightly strokes the part of Buck's face that isn't scorched, bending over so his own is quite close. "Winter, buddy, can you hear me?" 

The Soldier groans, his eyes open slightly. "Luis?" he barely forces out.

"Yeah it's Luis, big guy." The young man smiles down at him fondly. 

Steve is decidedly not smiling - _who the fuck is this guy?_ He decides now isn't the time to act like a jealous high-schooler. But, fuck, he's good looking. And way too familiar. 

"Am...dead?" the Soldier rasps.

"No, no you're not dead." Luis laughs softly. "You thought we were in hell together, huh? You are burnt up bad, but we're gonna help get the charred parts off so you can heal."

Buck breathes out raggedly, "No...attack you..."

"We've got some tasty deserving here for you, pal," Luis replies. "This is gonna hurt real bad, but you've gotta keep still, okay?" 

The Soldier makes the tiniest nod, the burnt flesh of his throat cracking.

Luis takes the belt off his ruined jeans, folds it over several times. "Bite on this, buddy," he offers as he eases the leather between Buck's parted teeth. His fingertips lightly graze the Soldier's cheek again, a comforting gesture, and Buck hums gravelly and soft. Steve can't help the hot stab in his gut, the formless anger that he knows is immature and a needless distraction in this situation. 

The former captive turns to the others. "Don't cut too shallow, or you're hurting him for nothing. Watch me for a second, then do what I do. This is how he showed me."

Steve can only nod. Is this really happening? Are they actually going to cut him up? He feels queasy, dizzy, but tries to shake it off. Luis starts seconds later. The sound of it is awful, even more nauseating than the smell of Buck's burnt skin and hair. They watch the young man carve a long slice of scorched meat from the Soldier's arm like a well-trained butcher and then all turn to their task, quick and silent. Buck whimpers and groans, biting hard into the leather, his canines and the pointy teeth next to them punching through first, the flatter (but still sharp) teeth in the front sinking in eventually. They all extend out of his gums a bit, then the pointy sets seem to start getting longer more and more by the second. The brunette's eyes glow aqua, turn ice blue and then go almost white, blinding in their intensity. His sounds become more animalistic, the mat beneath them and their pants where they kneel down sopping wet with his dark blood. No one will notice with what a mess they already are. 

The younger man stops, cleans his blade, turns and slashes across the tops of the prisoners' bare feet with his knife, drawing blood and grunts of pain.

"Okay, go, go!" Luis is up and out of the cage so fast, holding the door. There's a brief second where the others worry that he will close it on them, but he doesn't. The young man shuts it the moment they get clear. They hesitate momentarily, watching new skin knit together all over the Soldier's body as he thrashes in pain. Suddenly he goes still, silent. 

"Buck?" Steve whispers, fingers twining in the grate of the cage as he peers in.

The Soldier sits up slowly, the belt dropping from his mouth. He bares his teeth, growling low in his chest and starts to crawl forward. The prisoners sit stockstill in silence behind him.

"Run!" Luis instructs, pulling Steve from the bars as Buck jolts forward, all snarling teeth. The blonde barely has the key turned in the office's heavy steel door, locking it between themselves and the Soldier, before Buck bursts out of the cage. He runs straight at them, smashing his face into the thick panel that serves as a small window in the door, screaming incoherently. 

"Buck? Buck?!" Steve calls out to him on the other side as he bashes his face into the glass again and again. The blonde looks very close to tears. 

"He's not himself right now," Luis says, not unkindly, to the mechanic. The Soldier's metal fist smashes into the door, denting it severely, then crashes into it a second time nearly tearing it from the massive hinges.

_He almost bit off my fingers after all,_ Steve thinks absently. The mechanic feels like his grip on reality has snapped, and he can't pull himself together. He's never been afraid of Buck, not after their first meeting, even when he knew logically he should be. 

"Need to go!" Win grabs his arm. 

Nat and Luis help physically wrestle the blonde out of the room, Greta slamming the double doors and chaining them. They have two long thin window panels as well, just big enough to pop an arm through. Seconds later they see the steel office door give way, fly from the jamb then land with a loud clatter. It slides across the floor to the far wall. They watch in horror as Buck stalks out, looking like a monster from a horror movie, eyes blazing, teeth massive. He's even drooling. They prepare to run but suddenly he stops, tilts his head back and scents the air like a dog - he must smell the fresh wounds of the prisoners. Buck turns on his heel and runs back into the storage room at full speed. The muffled sounds of screaming and chains rattling against metal just reach them through the doors.

Minutes later a naked, red-blood spattered Buck emerges from the office. He stumbles all of eight or ten steps then faceplants into the wood flooring with his arms stretched out like Superman. His bare ass and his flesh arm, back and legs - save a few small spots - are gray again. They all stare in silence for a long moment before his flesh hand half lifts up off the floor and he groans, "help." 

They steal clothes off bodies to dress him, boots too since his are run through in multiple places, sole's sporting inch to inch and a half wide holes. He can't stand let alone walk and barely gets words out. Luis slides under one of his arms and Steve beneath the other - it's all they can do with Greta pushing from behind to keep him upright. Nat and Win each pick up a leg and they carry him. The younger women release him once they hear other Claptrappers approaching and the men and Greta walk-drag him to the truck, trying to avoid prying eyes as Win and Nat distract the onlookers.

They meet up with Phil and the other freed captives - he swears he said nothing to Fury about Buck and chastises Greta for what he considered an unnecessary threat. Nick's drones don't see anyone approaching Claptrap or in the vicinity of the burning town, so they breathe just the tiniest bit easier at that. The small group stuff Buck into a corner of a truck box with his knees folded up to his chest and his weapon in his lap, Steve under one arm propping him up, trying to make it look like they're having a celebratory cuddle after the fight.

_Yay, we're alive and shit._

It feels like an agonizingly long amount of time while Win, Nat, Greta and Phil go out to help the other Claptrappers once again comb through the dead and dying for their allies. Luis heads to find Clint, taking Muriel with him. The junktowners pick clean what little the rubble has to offer. There is certainly an abundance of hand weapons, plywood and sheet metal. Greta orders it all put into the truck that the blonde and the Soldier are set in, leaving only enough room for Win, Phil and Greta to ride back with it, keeping others away from the Soldier. When people ask where Buck is, each one of the Claptrappers who had been with him in the school tells a different lie, so that no one is aware which truck he is actually riding in or what his state is.

Clint and Nat ride in the truck with the medics, the archer clutching the hand of the little girl he had found buried in the pit as they work on her - she has serious burns on her legs and she wasn't breathing when he found her. His other fingers hold Buck's mask. 

"He put it on her," the archer whispers to his wife, "even though he must have known that the heat from the fire would burn him from the inside out. What the fuck do we do about his lungs? You heard how he was breathing." 

Luis lingers nearby, maintaining control of Muriel. She seems to drift in and out of awareness of what is happening to her grandchild, becoming briefly hysterical before collapsing in on herself to mumble and whisper. "He'll heal, with time," the younger man reassures. "And enough..." His eyes dart around to the strangers in the truck. He has no idea how much these people know. "Enough food and rest." 

When they're finally ready to go, all the trucks loaded and the doors closed, Greta comes and sits down near Steve and Buck. She pushes the hair back out of the Soldier's face. "How you feelin', kiddo? You gave me quite a scare."

"I am so tired," Buck whimpers, sounding on the verge of tears. 

The older woman eases him away from Steve, leans his head against her chest. She wraps her arms around him and rocks him back and forth. 

"I know sweetheart, I know. Go to sleep," she soothes.

In that moment Steve realizes that Greta had been a mother and his thoughts, for the first time in a long time, go to his own. He had been very close to having to pull sheets over a lot of people today. The mechanic grips Buck's metal hand and sobs, finally letting the reality of the day set in.


	33. Playing house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis thinks back on his time with Winter.

To say Luis had been terrified of the creature at first was an understatement. He had no idea where he'd got the cojones to try to reason with it or ask it for mercy after it dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the basement apartment and tied him to the heavy wooden kitchen chair. Honestly he was surprised at that stage, with no one left to give a shit about or to give a shit about him, that he even cared if he lived. What was life worth when it only boiled down to survival? Since he'd left Queens he'd known nothing but hunger, pain, exhaustion and fear. 

It was not necessarily the thought of death that spurred him to speak, so much as the cloying guilt of letting those assholes he'd been running with hurt the old man. There were maybe no priests left to confess to, and he wasn't sure that the thing before him would even understand what he was saying, but he needed to get it off his chest if he was about to die. It had just looked at him, blank-faced, and then left the room.

Luis was shocked when it returned the next morning with an open can half-full of cold spaghetti, a bottle of water and an empty bucket. It released him from his bonds without a word exchanged between them and left the room. He heard the footsteps stop not far away and realized it was waiting for him to eat and do his business so it could put him back in the chair. That's their routine, he guesses around seven a.m. and six p.m., every day for nearly two weeks. After the first three days he'd worked up the courage to ask for a fork and it was in his can the next morning. 

Then one day the thing comes in empty handed in the middle of the afternoon. It's four pointy teeth look bigger than ever (the others maybe a bit longer too) and it's eyes are glowing a crazy shade of electric blue that reminds him of a neon sign in his mother's beauty parlor. The fear ramps back up in him - this is it. It's probably killed all the others (they're far enough away in the big building that he virtually never hears them; no loss there) and it's his turn. Luis tells himself he won't beg. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes, says a silent prayer in Spanish his grandfather had taught him as a boy and waits for the thing to rip him apart like it had Al. 

It bends down without a word, pushes his head to the side with one hand and his shoulder down with the other and sinks its teeth into him. Luis cries out from the pain - it's like someone's closed a small bear trap on his neck - and thrashes against his bindings. He whimpers and, yes, begs it to stop. It's not just the pain; he can hear its slow, measured swallows as it drinks from him, feel the pull of it lightly sucking even as his own heartbeat forces the blood out of him into its mouth. 

After a long few moments, the pain starts to fade gradually into the background. A gentle pulsing replaces it, spreading from where the thing's teeth are buried in him up and down his neck a bit more with each beat. By the time it branches out into his spine he starts to involuntarily relax - he can still move, but it feels like he's underwater, every motion slow and requiring great effort. It gets hard to form words and soon he finds he doesn't really want to bother. 

A tingle, similar to the feeling when someone had rubbed their fingers lightly over his arm or he'd watched an ASMR video, spreads with the pulsation. They both get steadily stronger. He feels it reach up the back of his head to the crown, prickling pleasantly along his scalp and then down to light up his vertebrae one by one. The pulse - and the sensation that follows it - fans out across his back, around into his ribs, down into his hips and legs, until it buzzes lightly through the soles of his feet. 

It's hard to describe how it felt when he's questioned by the creature later - dumb with shock as it's the first time it had spoken to him, it's voice a bit deep but calm and soft - but he tries his best. Luis can't really explain why, and he knows it's probably stupid, but he's less afraid. The creature releases him from his bonds, takes him upstairs to the dining area and let's him pick three different cans from its stash of food. It even allows him to heat them up - there's still gas in the tank outside for the stove - while it observes silently. He offers to do the same for the green beans it's eating with its fingers and after a long, flat stare it holds the can out to him. 

He cautiously asks later if he can _not_ go back in the chair at night, reasoning to it that there are bars on the basement windows and the thing already locks the apartment door (the style of deadbolt is very sturdy and requires the key for both sides) - there is no way for him to get out. It looks at him for a long time, blank faced, then nods. That evening, it carefully ties him to the small bed in the basement apartment where it had been keeping him. Luis' heart drops into his stomach - he definitely knows what it would mean to the type of people he had been with when he arrived here to get restrained in this way - and asks the thing over and over "please don't hurt me." It just throws the bedcovers over him and leaves. 

When the creature bit him next, over a week later, it had been just as unceremonious as the first. He was anxious but overall far less scared - Luis certainly wasn't thrilled about spending so much of his day tied up, but at least the thing was meeting his basic needs and started letting him free to help loot the apartments (though supervised closely) as well as continuing to release him regularly to go to the bathroom (unsupervised thankfully, though it was never far away if he was loose). The creature bound him to the bed every evening. When Luis quietly asked one night if he could lay on his side, it paused, nodded and let him move into a more comfortable position before it went back to restraining him. At this point, Luis feels he has to focus on any small comfort that he can - he's alive, dry, warm, fed, (relatively) non-abused and sleeping on an actual mattress with sheets and blankets. 

Luis also has to admit that he had liked whatever it had done to him last time and hoped that this time would feel the same. Certainly it was a better alternative than the agony of the creature's teeth buried in the meat of his neck as he felt it suck him down like a human juice box. He doesn't offer struggle or protest when the thing grabs his shoulder and pushes his head to the side, but can't help his body going tight. The pulsing started precisely as before, but it escalated quickly, getting stronger and stronger until it was a dull throb through his whole body. 

The tingle got intense, spread everywhere, wave after wave of sensation washing over his skin and through his muscles. He grits his teeth, tries not to let on how good it feels. After a bit he can't stop himself - drugged little sounds spill out of him. The thing's moan in response is audible, even with its mouth clamped on him, and he feels the sound rumble through its chest as it presses itself closer to him. 

It leaves him in the chair even less after that, letting him pick his own food and eat daily with the creature in the dining area. The thing even allows him to be at a greater distance from it when he's unrestrained. Maybe he's crazy or weak or a coward for not resisting the creature keeping him like a pet and blood bag but how would he escape it and where would he run to if he did? They finish looting the building they're staying in and he compiles a big stack of stuff to use; the thing seems indifferent to him taking anything that isn't a weapon or food. With little to do one day and some modicum of personal freedom, he spends most of the afternoon flipping through magazines on a couch in the lobby. The creature sits on the floor taking apart and cleaning its weapons across the coffee table from him. 

Eventually Luis realizes that the thing has gotten very quiet. He looks up to see it staring at him, eyes slightly glowing that eerie but somehow pretty blue. The creature has a thin line of saliva coming from one corner of its lips. It occurs to Luis in a vague sort of way that its mouth must be watering. The thing slides the coffee table aside with an effortless gesture and then it's on him, the metal arm sliding around his waist as the other hand grips the base of his skull, maneuvers him. He tries his best not to tense up or cry out - the pain of the bite only lasts seconds, the pulsing ramping up to a hard throb very quickly. 

The sensations rock through him, turning from pleasant to pleasurable so fast that he has no idea at what point he goes slack or starts moaning. The thing pulls him off the sofa, holds him so high his toes don't even touch the ground, pressing him close. It makes its own sounds of enjoyment again and again right along with him. The experience seems to stretch on a long time, everything else melting away. 

After, he's vaguely aware of it carrying him to his bed, covering him, coming back in over and over to push it's flesh hand to his pulse, chest or forehead. Luis is so relaxed and warm, his thoughts swirling slow and dreamlike. The creature seems mildly agitated, pacing, eventually settling in the chair nearby as Luis finally gives in to his intense urge to sleep. When he wakes he's not bound and the deadbolt is unlocked. The thing is nowhere to be found. 

Luis has a long debate about his next move. He realizes what happened the night before is probably clouding his judgment and maybe the logical thing to do is get the fuck out. But it seems the...man?... doesn't intend to hurt him, despite how blatantly homicidal he was. Perhaps they had started as captive and captor but that arrangement had clearly ended; they would be something else if he chose to stay. Luis couldn't blame the guy for tying him up, for thinking he was bad news, since he had reluctantly helped the others try to kill him - he'd even shot him in the leg. 

He has food here, shelter, other creature comforts. The man obliterates any threat that arises (the area gets its share of less than friendly visitors, most of whom end up one more bloodstain on the man's clothes) and seems relatively open to requests to meet his needs. Luis also can't lie that he very badly wants the man to do again whatever he had done to him last night. His body still aches pleasantly with little after shocks from it and he had gotten his best sleep in years. 

It should be weird, having another dude clutching at him and pleasuring him and moaning against his neck. He's not homophobic but he'd never so much as thought about holding hands with a guy and had a laundry list of ex-girlfriends. But Luis knows on some level that what the man did to him was not about sex or romance. The act and the feelings it creates - pleasure, relaxation, a need for closeness, a type of shared simple intimacy - don't have an easy label based on human behavior because the man isn't human. 

Still, he can't lie when the guy finally comes back hours later he feels some kind of relief and tentative connection to him. Luis surprises himself when he offers his own name to the other man; he says nothing in return but does address him as Luis the next day. They fall into a pattern - first they eat breakfast together in silence, then the man quietly outlines their scavenging plans for the day. They each pack a small bag and loot another area of the suburb they're staying on the outskirts of. Eat lunch in silence. Loot more. Trek back. Eat dinner in silence. Sort their haul. Go to bed once he's tired. 

_It's just like the racist old white people thought,_ he laughs to himself, staring at a portrait of the most tense WASP family he's ever seen, _the brown guy has come from the city to take their shit. I bet they never guessed gray guys would be involved._ Eyeing their dead security keypad, he imagines what an infomercial for a vampire home defense system might look like and chuckles outloud. That earns him the tiniest movement of the man's eyebrows. Luis thinks of it as Facial Expression #2 from then on, the man's usual blank look being #1. 

At night for a few hours before bed, or when the man just decides for whatever reason they'll stay in all day, he is mostly let alone to do what he wants. He hangs out in the fancy common areas, including a glassed in patio on the fifth floor and the roof deck next to the long-dry pool. He even gets the man to play ping pong with him after he teaches the rules (the bastard wins every time). 

Eventually he starts asking a few questions here and there, getting the man to tell him his…Well, it's not a name exactly. Winter Soldier 23. No, he's not a cyborg or an alien or supernatural in origin. Yes, he is a science experiment. He elaborates a bit on that when pressed but not much. The soldier doesn't answer why he's there or what his plans are - if any - after this place. 

He takes to calling the man Winter, both out of convenience and because unlike "soldier" it feels more like a name than a title. Winter feeds on him regularly. It surprises Luis how often he can do it before the smaller man starts to feel out of sorts. Winter seems to notice, doting on him for a few days, insisting he stay on the lobby couch with a blanket when he's not in bed, bringing him hot food and fresh water. He even leaves for an afternoon and comes back with medical supplies, hooking an IV up to Luis. He's more careful not to do it so close together after that. 

Getting fed on feels more amazing every time, despite the fact the bigger man just sort of finds Luis wherever he's at in the building when the mood strikes him and latches on without a word. Finally one day he's had enough of being man-handled. Winter charges into the kitchen as Luis is about to make dinner, a very familiar glow about his eyes as he drops down on the floor next to where the smaller man is digging through a cabinet for a mixing bowl. He grabs Luis by the upper arm with his metal hand, his other going to the back of his neck, yanking him forward.

"Hey! Hey! **No**!!!" Luis doesn't know what possesses him to yell and push against Winter's chest, nor why the bigger man actually stops. He looks at the smaller man with Facial Expression #2 (maybe it will even be a #3 because there's a faint hint of annoyance mixing with the confusion). 

"Hungry," Winter says, quiet but insistent.

"Yeah, well so am I. Fuck, can I at least eat and take my boots off first? We've been home all of ten minutes."

_Home? This is home now?_

Yep, definitely adding a #3 to the list. There's subtle irritation on Winter's features. He lets Luis shake his metal hand off and pull back from the one on his neck, sliding a few feet away. 

"And you don't need to be so rough!" He pulls up his t-shirt sleeve to show the new and old finger shaped bruises on his bicep. "I don't even try to fight back, so I don't know why you think you gotta grab onto me like that. You could just, ya know, ask me."

_Is that a #4 expression maybe?_ Winter's eyes go ever so slightly wider as he surveys the marks, mouth turning down the tiniest bit at the corners. Luis would never notice if the bigger man wasn't literally the only person he'd seen for nearly two months and wasn't around him twelve plus hours every day. He leaves the smaller man alone until the late evening. 

Winter knocks on the basement apartment door (another thing Luis had finally complained about after he'd walked in on him changing for the dozenth time). When he's told to come in he walks to the edge of the bed where Luis sits and kneels down in front of him.

"Please," Winter whispers, voice thick and gravelly. "I need it."

The feeding is the best it's been so far that time, Winter's pulse buried in him, flooding him with pleasure. Luis is embarrassed the next day of how loud he'd moaned, seated on the bigger man's lap where he'd been gently pulled. Winter had been hunched over him, his own sounds frequent and needy, as he sucked from Luis slow. 

He doesn't hesitate to tell the bigger man what he thinks after that, earning him a lot of #3 and #4 looks. Winter seems particularly affronted when he brings up his hygiene or cajoles him into doing something outside of his very limited comfort zone. Luis sees something in him, a spark of a personality, he hopes isn't just his imagination. He tries carefully to fan it into a flame.


	34. Green eyed monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deals with the reavertown aftermath.

There's no easy way to smuggle Buck back to Steve's shanty. Claptrap doesn't exactly have standard sized roads and the large cargo truck will not fit anywhere near his home. Gurminder takes charge of Muriel, leading her to medical to see her granddaughter and help Bruce assess the old woman's state. Clint had stayed back to help with Buck, letting a medic take the child to Dr. Banner - she is stabilized but not out of the woods. Steve had urged Luis to go with the psychiatrist or the little girl, but the young man insisted on staying to help "Winter."

Steve was already really over him calling Buck that. 

It's Win's idea to put the Soldier on a piece of sheet metal and cover him with a tarp, surrounded by random stuff they'd salvaged from the reavertown. The welder and the mechanic were always hoarding scrap and engine parts for their various projects. She helps Steve, Luis, Greta and Clint carry it through the junktown, Buck invisible to passersby. When they're sure no one is around, several of them hurry him into the mechanic's place and put him on the floor on the tarp. Then they all casually take the junk pile to the lean-to on the back of Win's they use for storage, letting others see them and hear them talking normally. Fury had ears and eyes everywhere. 

Nat and Phil head to give report to Nick and make excuses for the Soldier's absence. They're counting on at least a few nosy people having overheard the fight between him and the blonde before the run, and it having got back to Nick. They plan to tell him that Buck had entrusted them with the mission information so that he could go and smooth things over with his boyfriend. If that doesn't work, they'll turn things on their head and say Buck and Greta are furious with Nick for not having caught on to what the reavers were up to in his aerial footage, maybe even insinuate that he had intentionally withheld information. Some of the gang had discussed just that before they had parted ways.

Steve and the others make a big show of shooting the shit and organizing the scrap. Random people stop to talk to them about the mission. They assure them it was successful, though they all turn sorrowful when discussion of casualties comes up. There is no official final count yet, but they place the number at somewhere around fifteen with another two dozen severely injured and many more suffering cuts, contusions and broken bones.

The blonde invites the others in, loudly enough but not too over the top, for a drink. Once they're inside and the door is shut, a whirlwind of activity ensues. They strip Buck out of the filthy reaver garb and Greta and Steve start cleaning him up with wet, soapy rags, working around and after Clint and Luis, who trim the few remaining charred patches off him. The Soldier whimpers but is otherwise still. He has been mostly out of it since falling asleep on Greta, the old woman chuckling softly when he'd drooled on her. Once he's as sanitized as he'll get without a bath, Steve and Greta get him into his sweatpants and they all lift him up onto the bed.

Luis grabs a straight razor - another great find from the yard that had needed minimal clean up and sharpening - from where it sat in a tin cup on a shelf. Despite how smooth-faced he looked, Steve had to shave every other day to stay that way, growing a thick beard the sandy color of his brows fairly quickly. Buck also developed stubble over a good portion of his cheeks and jaw - with his hair so dark it was virtually always visible through his skin even when freshly shaved, though it took a lot longer than the mechanic's to grow to any length (Steve had zero problem admitting that the almost permanent five o'clock shadow the bigger man sported was pretty hot). 

When Buck met Luis he had a thick raggedy beard a few inches long, matted with filth, that the younger man had fairly quickly talked him into cutting off. It was the only thing he found gross when Winter bit him (after the first few times at least). Buck thought about the young man every time he shaved, because for several months Luis had done it for him. Brock had insisted Steve do it as well, but not for hygiene. The blonde had a good idea in addition to being a rapist pig, the ex ops sadist was probably a pederast and liked that Steve looked - at least back then - about fourteen when he was clean shaven. 

Luis climbs in the bed with Buck, shimmying up against the headboard, feet on either side of Buck's head just above his shoulders. The young man's knees are bent up towards his chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Steve questions, taking a few quick steps to the edge of the bed, as Luis unfolds the razor. 

"Easy, blondey. I'm just getting the burnt hair off." Luis starts sliding thin swaths of the brunette locks between his thumb and the blade, shearing off the ends. He stops every few minutes to hold random pieces out on either side of the Soldier's face and head, checking that they're the same length like a professional stylist would do.

"You look like you know what you're doin' there, kid." Greta sits on the foot of the bed and watches. 

"I grew up in my mama's salon. I saw her razor hair hundreds of times. I used to cut his for him every three weeks, like clockwork. I sucked when I tried it with scissors because his hair's so thick. It looked choppy. But this I figured out pretty quick." He works fast, placing the cut off pieces in a small pile on the headboard. "Help me turn him?" 

Clint assists him in rolling Buck on his left side so Luis can go to work on his right. There's a long silence while they all watch, then they flip him to the other side. 

"Okay sooooo now that shit has calmed down a little… How the fuck do you know our friend and why were you _grooming him_ on the reg?" Clint pulls up a kitchen chair and faces the back to the bed. He sits on it with his legs splayed, watching Luis, arms folded on the top of the chairback. The faces Steve has been making since the younger man revealed he had some kind of relationship to the Soldier weren't lost on the archer.

"That's a very long story. Suffice it to say we met under bad circumstances and helped each other out," the would-be hairdresser responds.

"So you and him weren't….?" the archer queries. 

"_Weren't_…?" Luis has a tone, like he either knows exactly what the archer's asking, but is pretending not to, or like he's maybe being a smart-ass and letting them know it's not their business.

Steve doesn't like that one bit. Clint just lifts both of his eyebrows and smirks, as if to say _don't play dumb with me_. 

"Look, when I met him he was basically an animal," Luis starts, not pausing in his work. "He was filthy, his hair just a bunch of snarls with blood crusted in it. I didn't want to look at him like that everyday." 

He starts to ease Buck up into a sitting position, motioning for Clint to help him. Greta puts her arms around the Soldier's upper back as far as she can and eases his forehead against her shoulder so that Luis can cut the back of his hair.

"Also, I guess... I guess I thought there was a _person_ in there somewhere under the crusty exterior. I was never sure how far I got with helping _him_ discover that, but it seems like you guys are all his friends so maybe I did something right." 

"He is our friend," Win says, coming over to lightly rest her hand on Buck's arm. She makes a concerned face. "He doesn't feel warm enough." 

"I've noticed him like that before," Steve comments, "when he hasn't...fed recently. I'm sorry I kept that from all of you, that he has to do that. I didn't want anyone to be afraid." 

"The injuries and then what we did to him took a lot out of him. Just the three guys aren't nearly enough to get him back to normal. He'll be weak like this for a while and he'll need to drink a lot more." 

Luis is finally done cutting. Steve brings the garbage bag with the reaver cast offs over and they throw the scorched hair in. Greta and Luis lean Buck back against the young man, the Soldier's head resting against the middle of his sternum, his back over Luis' now crossed legs. The young man's arms hang loosely around Buck's chest. 

Steve doesn't like that one bit either.

"He told me about it months ago," the welder says softly. "The need." 

"I figured it out pretty quick too," Greta adds. "I mean, look at those teeth. And then you two volunteering to be alone with those bodies we found in the shed. I saw his face when he looked at all that blood in the pails. Like a dog looking at a sirloin." 

"Well why the fuck was I left in the dark?" Clint demands. "And shouldn't we...get him some then? Maybe from the cows?" 

"Stalls were very busy with people when we passed," Win responds.

"Because you have a really big mouth, Clint, and also I didn't want you doing anything stupid like asking him to bite you," Steve scolds the archer. 

"So he's never bitten _any of you_? Not even you, blondey?" Luis questions. He had been sure the little guy and Winter had a similar arrangement to the one they had shared in the apartment building. 

"No, of course not. I mean, he said he can feed on people without killing them, but…" Steve trails off. "I thought about offering - because it's so hard for him to get enough here when he can't really risk attacking people - but I figured he'd be weird about it, since it'd be painful for me." 

_Except earlier. Earlier he had wanted to rip you apart._ Steve had always thought that Buck, even at his most hungry, would never hurt him. Right from the beginning when the mechanic found out what the Soldier was, he had this unexplainable, naive trust in the man. 

Luis chuckles. "So you guys don't know?" 

"Know what?" Steve furrows his brows.

The mechanic's tone, though trying to sound controlled, turns into something that Clint recognizes as angry. Fuck, the archer had some inkling the kid was the jealous type - that's why he'd kept his little make-out session with the Soldier hush-hush - but Steve turns practically as green as Luis' eyes when their new ally lifts his hand and gently runs his fingers through Buck's hair.

"Under normal circumstances, it's totally fine for him to bite you. He's actually really good at it, really careful. He used to feed on me all the time." 

Clint thinks that Steve's face is practically an open book now, big bold italic letters asking why Buck has never done it to him then.

"You let him do that to you?" Greta questions in surprise.

"He didn't exactly ask, not at first, he just did it. It took a lot of work to get him to understand boundaries with other people. But then, yeah, I let him." A ghost of a smile crosses Luis' face as he looks down at the top of the bigger man's head. "Hey," he eyes Greta, "can you sanitize a small, sharp knife for me? I can feed him, show you guys it's no big deal." 

She does as he asks, avoiding the mechanic's withering gaze. Luis tilts Buck's head back, craning his own neck forward. "Winter, buddy, can you look at me?" 

"Nnnn," the Soldier responds, opening his eyes. They're glowing blue again. 

"I'm going to let you drink from me, okay? I know you're really tired and it'll be hard for you to bite me without it being a mess, so I'm gonna make a little cut and then hold it to your mouth. I just need you to remember that you gotta be careful, okay? Don't drink too fast or squeeze my arm too hard. Can you do that for me?" Luis' voice is soothing and quiet, his thumbs lightly stroking Buck's jaw.

Steve desperately wants to stop this, to get the guy the fuck away from the Soldier. He knows Buck needs to eat though, and if this works maybe he can do it for him too. He feels incredibly silly and childish at how worked up he is at the whole situation and tells himself it's probably just the stress of the day. Steve had not lost anyone dear to him thankfully, but it had been so close. There had also been acquaintances among the dead, all decent folks. 

Even those he did not know had someone here who cared; the mechanic's heart went out to them. He presumed they were all fundamentally good people. As shit as the world was, Steve still usually assumed most people were good deep down. He decides to try to give Luis the benefit of the doubt. Even if there had been something between the young man and the Soldier before, even if there were a lot of things that the mechanic hated about himself and found unworthy of affection, Steve can't deny the way Buck looks at him says he is in love with the blonde.

When the Soldier nods to the young man's query, Luis jabs the point of the blade a fraction of an inch deep into the lower part of the inside of his arm. He quickly presses his bleeding forearm to Buck's mouth. The bigger man goes from looking barely conscious to extremely alert, eyes going wide and glowing brighter as he brings his hands up quickly to clutch Luis, to press him tighter to his mouth. 

The bigger man groans, long and low in his chest, and it's only a few moments before he starts to look drunk. His eyelids go half-closed over irises turned violet. He makes soft sounds of enjoyment again and again, and Steve can see where his fingers are lightly denting Luis' flesh. The mechanic can't help but think about what Buck's soft lips must feel like against his skin, about the vibration of his little moans through his arm.

"See? No big deal. It doesn't even hurt after a minute." Even with the flat fronts of Winter's teeth just pressed against him rather than buried in, he can feel the bigger man's pulse. Luis can't help but think back to their many times together. He had been trying all day to block out the thoughts of it, to focus on what his friend needed rather than his own wants. 

After a bit, he softly asks Buck to stop and to heal him. It takes a second for the Soldier, so obviously drugged by it, to comply but he does. Luis strokes his hair for a little while longer, telling him what a good job he'd done. Then he asks the others if any of them want to try it. Greta goes first, then Win, both commenting on the slight tingly feeling that they get from it once the pain stops, but when Steve approaches the bed Buck says _no_ and turns his face away.


	35. Pandora's box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick throws a wrench into the gang's day.

"Greta, Greta, do you copy?" Suddenly Phil coming in over her walkie breaks the awkward silence.

"Copy, Phil. What's the sit-rep? Over," the older woman responds. 

"He saw Buck in the pit on the drone feed! He saw us pull him out, carry him in and out of the school. He saw us put him in the truck. The ex ops guys are armed up and they're heading to Steve's. I don't know what the fuck you're going to do, but you better think of something quick." The walkie goes silent. 

Before Fury approaches the shanty, all twelve of the ex ops team circle the tiny building in combat stance, automatic weapons raised. They're in full battle armor - some bloody from the reavertown fight - and helmets for those who still have them. There had been twenty of them when they arrived at Claptrap years ago, with Nick, Phil, the pilots and Hill. They had been sent out at least a few to a time on every run since the beginning and their need to take point in dangerous situations had taken its toll.

He has Natasha with him. Phil had apparently been left behind - no doubt Fury had allowed him to spin his lies for some time before the taller man had revealed he already knew precisely what had happened. Steve is standing at the front door, rifle in hand pointed directly at Nick's face. Greta, Win and Clint are on the roof, their own weapons trained on the approaching ex ops soldiers. Luis had even tagged along, the older woman giving him a handgun. 

"Hiiiiiiiiiiii," Natasha says - in a fake, high pitched voice that's intended to be funny and diffuse the situation - as she steps forward. "It seems to me like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. How about we all put our phallus representations down and talk about this like grown-ups. I don't know what Phil told you, but Nick just needs Buck to go on a little trip, and then he'll be right back. No one needs to get hurt."

"I really like you," Steve responds, "and I hope tomorrow we're still pals, but if you take another step towards my door I'm gonna put a bullet in your shoulder."

"Baby," she calls up to the roof, "please come down here and tell your brother from another mother to stop pointing that thing at my boss before I have to take it from him and shove it up his ass."

"No can do, baby," Clint responds, "Sort of busy here." 

"This is really the hill you want to die on, Barton?" Fury queries. "For that _thing._"

"He's my friend," the archer responds, "which is more than I can say for you. I don't believe for a second that you didn't know they dug that trap, or the tunnels, or that there were so many of them. Is that what you thought it would take to kill him or get him weak enough where you could? Throw an entire army of cannibals at him, fuck how many of us died in the process." 

"That's why you didn't want Steve and Win to go," Greta adds. "You knew what would happen and you couldn't lose your wunderkinds or this place would fall apart. But the old bitch and her crew are expendable right?"

"They must have laid the scrap out at night, you idiots," Nick blasts back. "If they started digging inside the houses we'd never see it. I will admit, I should have noticed the shit in the streets increasing bit by bit, but with all the sand…" 

"You know you can't trust him, Nat," Clint calls to his wife. "If you're not on my side now, then I'm not sure that's an option you'll have in the future." 

Nat turns and looks at Nick, searching his face for the tell. She doesn't see it, but she backs up next to the house anyway, pointing her wrist electro disc unit at one of the nearest ops guys. "Sorry, Fury. This is the post-apocalypse and good D is hard to find."

"Do you really think I would send you, my soldiers, Hill...fuck, even Coulson, into a situation I knew they definitely wouldn't all walk away from?" Nick demands. 

"Why not? You're doing it right now," she answers calmly. 

"There's no winning this. We have you outnumbered and outgunned," Fury insists. 

"We may not take your whole team, but there sure as fuck won't be many of them left after," Steve seethes. "You really want to sacrifice them to kill someone who isn't even threatening you?"

"Walk away while you still have one good eye, shithead! I won't let you kill one of my boys!" Greta adds.

"What part of I need him alive do you not motherfuckin' comprehend?" Nick yells.

"And after you get whatever you want from him you'll just let him go? My skinny ass. What's your plan? You think you can restrain him while he's weak to fix the neural net?" Steve accuses, slightly lowering the rifle.

One of the ops guys surges forward, attempting to tackle the blonde. Clint has an arrow in the guy's leg before he gets five feet from the house.

"Hold your fire!" Fury puts up his hands. "Last chance, kid."

"Go fuck yourself," Steve spits.

"Fire on my order," Nick calls out, "non-lethal if possible. Deadly force authorized if necessary." 

"Even if I have to drag him out of here over your corpse, he's not gonna be anyone's puppet again," the blonde declares. 

The door whips open behind Steve, the Soldier standing there in just his sweats, looking like he's been run over by a truck. "Enough," he says softly. 

"Go back inside!" Steve moves to stand directly in front of him. "We can handle this." 

Buck looks over at Fury. "Ammunition for the type of gun your people carry is very difficult to find scavenging. Judging from the way they are carrying their weapons, some of their magazines are completely empty, others have less than a quarter mag. Clint has approximately twenty-two arrows, some of which may no longer be usable as they have already been fired at least once. Greta has fifteen bullets, Luis six, Win is empty. Steve is probably empty as well." 

A split-second after he stops speaking Steve points his rifle up in the air, fires it off with a loud crack that echoes through the tiny junktown, brings it back down to level it at Nick's face again as he moves the bolt to eject the casing. 

"You can't have him," the mechanic says again, voice raspy and broken. 

Buck steps to stand beside the blonde, reaches over, calmly puts his hand on top of the rifle and pushes it down to face at the ground. Steve stares up at him in surprise.

"If you ask your personnel to stand down and leave the area, I will allow you to come inside and we will have a discussion. I am very tired, but I can and will still kill them if they attempt to harm us." His eyes flare as he stares down the older man. "I do not wish to tear them apart, or you, in front of _our_ friends."

Fury hesitates for only a moment before ordering them to stand down and return to the small building they use as their home base. The Soldier steps aside, motions him in. Buck sits wearily down on the edge of the bed, Steve settling in beside him with the rifle still in his hands and Nat leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The others stay up on the roof, just in case, but the hatch is open. 

"I know what you desire. You want me to unlock the asset," Buck says to Fury after only a brief silence. 

"Asset?" Steve questions.

"The large metal crate you aided in recovering from the barn in the edge of the wasteland," the Soldier explains.

Steve's brows furrow in confusion. "Who told you about that?"

"He was there, tracking it down same as us. You were just ready to murder me and some people you've played cards with dozens of times over _him_. Except he's not here for you. He wants the crate, and he knows it's nearby but he can't figure out where we put it. Probably figured if he got in good with you, you'd tell him." 

"You said it contained emergency supplies Nick - medicine and whatnot - that you added to the public coffers. That was all bullshit?" The blonde points his finger at Fury. 

"What's in the box?" Clint's head pops through the hole in the ceiling.

"Two hundred grenades. Thirty pounds of plastic explosives. Forty-eight automatic assault rifles, seventy two pistols, six thousand rounds of ammunition, four rocket launchers, sixteen rockets, twenty four grappling hooks with climbing rope, forty eight sets of multi-system display binocular-capable goggles and carbon fiber masks," Buck rattles off.

"That's enough shit to bring down a small country," the archer responds, dangling down through the hole by a double grip on the opening's edge, flexing his thick arms.

"Yes, that was the idea. The crate would be air-dropped along with the Winter Soldiers on foreign soil. We would recover the asset and utilize the tools inside to take down a government hostile to the military's interests. The asset is designed so that no one can open it save a Winter Soldier, so that we can safely leave it unattended in the field and return to it as needed to rearm," the Soldier states. 

"Is there, like, a special whistle or some shit? I remember seeing that thing and it just looks like a huge steel box, no handle, no control panel, no seams, nothing." Clint sits at the table opposite Nick. 

"It requires placement of a Winter Soldier's hand in a specific area. Chemicals unique to our makeup that exist in the oil of our skin are read in tandem with our pulse signature, which also differs greatly from a human. This is why he needed me alive." 

Nick nods. "Those weapons could protect this place, allow us to scavenge safely even farther out. I thought, maybe, if Steve got chummy with him, I'd talk the kid into _talking him_ into opening it for us." 

"The crate contains new-grade WS series weapons. Aside from the plastic explosives, they would be less than useless to you." Buck gets up, crosses the room to retrieve his automatic rifle. He hands it to Fury. "You can remove the magazine to ensure that it is loaded, but it will not fire. The trigger functions the same way as the panel on the box, as with all WS series weapons manufactured post 2030, including this mid-series which accompanied me to the second facility." 

Nick checks the mag, reloads it, ensures it's ready to fire. He aims at Buck - Steve sucking in a sharp breath - and pulls the trigger. Nothing. "Well fuck me."

"I don't understand," Clint says. "If you're on our side, and you can use the weapons to help us, and you know no one else can use them, why haven't you just _offered_ to open it?" 

"One. Fury would not grant me access to such an arsenal. He has an emotional reaction to my kind due to his facial injury. Once I opened the crate he would attempt to destroy me. Two. The crate was also used to hide another item, one which I cannot allow any human to have access to. Three. I am not the only Winter Soldier and I do not know the status of the others. It is better that it remain shielded and undetectable rather than others discover its location and obtain what is within. Four. I...did not want to reveal that I had an ulterior motive in entering the community with Steve." 

"Face it kid," Fury says as the blonde's expression twists, "you got _way too_ chummy. I knew you wouldn't listen to me, maybe you'd even turn against me and help him find it."

"Can you blame me? You're constantly playing little games with everyone. Sprinkling in half-truths." The mechanic scowls. 

"You mean like your _boyfriend_?" Fury questions. "I watched him on the drone feed for months outside the wall before you brought him here and I kept doing it after. While he was supposed to be under your supervision, he snuck out at night regularly to murder people in the scrubland." 

"Only the deserving!" Buck interjects. 

"He'd killed four different clusters of those folks with the white X on'em before the ones you all ran into the day you found him in the sand. Now, I know how _he knows_ the crate is here, but the signal was completely blocked well before any of them showed up. Which means those people probably aren't looking for the crate. Bet he didn't mention any of that. Then you just so happen to find some of those people with the X at the reavertown where there just happens to be a trap good enough to capture him."

"What do you hope to gain by telling him these things?" the Soldier barely whispers. 

Fury glares, leaning forward. "I want him to know the type of _person_ he was willing to shoot me in the face for."

Buck turns to the blonde, face sad and guilty. The little mechanic will not look at him. He turns back to Fury. "Where is the asset?" 

"Over my dead body," Nick responds. "How do I know you're not bluffing about the weapons?" 

"I am a soldier, not a spy. I was designed to kill, not to infiltrate. I was not trained to lie nor does it seem to be inherent in my nature to do so." 

"Yet you have zero problem keeping things from me apparently. Crossbones' people. The crate. _The hot guy on my roof,_" the blonde quips. 

Buck looks at Steve. "Withholding information is not the same as lying." 

"I told you that you two are painfully alike," Steve says to Fury as he stands. He crosses the room and walks out, slamming the door. 

Hours later he's sitting on the hill around the yard eating a stale bag of nacho chips alone, staring out into the wastes. Steve looks out into the distance and thinks to himself that he should have - just for once - left well enough alone when he had noticed the glint in the sand nearly a year ago.


	36. You don't know jack.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve contemplates his time before Claptrap.
> 
> ***Extra trigger warning - intense discussion about and allusions to rape and abuse***

Steve had found the ancient suitcase under the old woman's bed when Brock was out of the room. What was left of her had melted into the mattress, and then dried out into a husk barely recognizable as a person aside from the remnants of a blue rinsed perm and the indestructible polyester floral nightgown. It was amazing how little what he deemed old lady chic had changed since a hundred years ago; this could be his great-great-grandmother based on their style choices. 

The blonde had a similar "roommate" for multiple weeks while he was still alone on the road - he nicknamed the shriveled corpse in the recliner Florence after he put a sheet over her. Her closet only contained house dresses and nightgowns; since he had not had a clean set of clothes in weeks he said fuck it and started wearing them around her house. That was how he had discovered his love of the absurdly comfortable sack-like garment. After his talking to Florence went from a joke to something he just did without thinking about it, as if she'd answer, he decided it was time to leave and maybe find some actual people. What a bad idea that was. 

He had a different suitcase back then, a fairly modern one with wheels and an extendable handle that he had taken from one of the other apartments in Brooklyn. Brock of course, being the overreacting piece of shit that he was, had thrown the entire thing away (including his innocuos items inside, like books and clothes). This suitcase was very different - probably twelve decades old and covered in robin egg blue faux leather, it had a rectangular hard body and featured an impractically small lucite handle with two massive, tarnished latches. It was a testament to the products of that era that aside from some scuffs it looked no worse for wear. He thinks of Taj's stories immediately. The older mechanic had served in three brutal guerrilla style wars and occasionally something would slip out about his time overseas while they worked. 

The need for the suitcase stemmed from his increasingly unruly behavior as of late. From day one, he fought Brock or anyone else who tried to touch him, but he had been relatively reserved the rest of the time. There was no need to invite further assault upon his person. Now, however, there was very little logical or self-preserving (beyond survival instinct to eat, sleep, shit and try to stay warm) functioning in Steve's mind. The bullheaded part - the cynical, anti-authority, no-fucks-given part - was a molten pit of rage that didn't fear pain or injury and now it was usually in control. 

Steve spent his days mostly tied up in the truck at this point because of his behavior - if Brock or any of his men were nearby or inside, he was constantly running his mouth and doing other things to fuck with him. He would talk about how small the leader's dick was or whatever else he could think of to embarrass the man. After Brock had taken to gagging him, he would find other ways to be annoying, like humming very loudly while he beat his feet or head rhythmically against the metal of the cargo box. One day Steve had quickly and silently untied the man's boots and then knotted the laces together in the middle. Brock, already barking out orders, moved to leave the back of the truck and toppled out, face-planting into the dirt. 

The blonde had cackled wildly, even through the fabric in his mouth, and continued to do so while he was kicked and punched, until Brock had beat him unconscious. It was four days before he saw another person, the light streaming through the back door of the truck blinding him after being in the dark for so long. Since he clearly couldn't be trusted to have his hands bound in the front, they were now behind him, so he was unable to even pull his prick out. Honestly pissing his pants was fairly low on his indignity list at this point and replaying the memory of Brock tumbling out of the truck, boots flying up in the air still tied together, was totally worth it. He is not surprised when the person in the doorway is finally recognizable as Jack.

When the blonde had first been abducted by the Rape Ape (one of the many nicknames he had given Brock), the leader had still shared a truck with his top lieutenant. They spent hours stuck in the back of the truck together, while Brock usually rode shotgun with whatever lackey he gave driving honors to that week. The blonde had only begrudgingly started to talk to Jack - the man had pointed out it was better that they pass the time that way than staring at each other in awkward silence. Ever with an artistic and structural eye, Steve had studied the man's unusual features.

The second in command was very tall and lanky with broad shoulders. He had multiple deep facial scars and one of his hazel eyes occasionally turned to look wherever it wanted - Jack said they'd put over twenty pins in his face to reconstruct it after a Humvee accident. He was lighter than Brock's olive complexion, but not as pasty as Steve, with a strong Cupid's bow lip shape and an aquiline nose. His dark hair was slicked back from his high forehead and reached the base of his skull. While he was not exactly handsome he was striking. Steve quickly learned that Jack was smarter and a lot more interesting than the others, and had a sense of humor unlike His Highness Fluffyhair MacMeathead. If Jack wasn't helping a group of uber-violent monsters burn their way across the countryside - if Steve wasn't imprisoned by his serial abuser friend - things could have been different between them. 

Jack was a good fighter and quick witted, but he lacked Brock's sadism, charisma and commanding presence. The two men had traveled the world with their ops team, murdering people on every continent in the name of the United States of America - among other things - before the collapse. Now they worked for their own ends, taking whatever they wanted from whoever they wanted, some vague goal insinuated but never specifically spelled out. It was clear the two men were not of a single mind on many subjects; Jack for instance didn't involve himself in torturing and killing civilians, only joining a battle against marauders or reavers or another rogue military band who didn't want to play nice. 

None of them - at first - explicitly talked about what was happening between Steve and Brock, but Jack was not stupid. He had never seemed too pleased with what Pope Phallicus Limpicus the Third referred to as his "arrangement" with the young man, and would do a number of passive aggressive things to run interference between them. Sometimes Brock would ask him to leave the truck, and he would just calmly cross his legs and put his hands behind his head, then complain about how tired he was, telling the other man that his dick could wait. It only took a few months of this before the leader settled the matter by "rewarding" his second in command with his own truck, arguing that it was better to store all of the explosives in one place under his strict supervision. The big man was their demolitions master after all. 

That turned out to be a grave miscalculation on the part of General Giraffe Genitals, as Jack was unimpressed with the faux ass kissing and promptly booby-trapped every entrance to the vehicle, rigging them all up to a keypad that only he had the passcode to. The leader couldn't simply do away with the other man - if the truck or keypad were tampered with, blammo and he knew even under torture Jack wouldn't give up the code. Despite the broad skill-set that Brock and his other followers possessed, none of them was highly trained in explosives. They regularly needed him to clear the road or get into buildings, sometimes even to fight other crews that had heavily armored vehicles. Besides, even if they could have guessed at volumes and figured out detonators until they got it right eventually, he now had all the boom boom under lock and key. 

The big man never looked at Steve the way that Brock or some of the others did, but eventually the younger man got an inkling Jack had a crush on him. Maybe it was the complete lack of anyone around who wasn't an unwashed murder machine, or maybe it was just that Steve made him (often unintentionally) laugh and knew a little about a lot of things. Either way, it turned out to be an asset to subtly stoke that fire. Every time things got deeply dark and scary with Brock, every time that Steve was sure this was finally it, that he was at long last going to be murdered or horrifically maimed, Jack would find a way to intervene.

And here the tall man is again, stepping up into the truck, closing the door and turning on the overhead lighting. He takes the gag down off of Steve's face, careful not to press any harder over the raw spots extending out from the corners of his mouth, and then unwinds the wire from his wrists. He hands the blonde a warm can of broth.

"Drink it slow or you'll be sick." 

Steve, for once, does as he is told. He knows he is reaching the end of his rope in terms of going without food. Soon he won't have the strength to even lift his arms, let alone take a swing at the President of Douchenozzles Incorporated when he shows back up. After he slurped all he could out of the container, he ran his long fingers around the inside to get the residue. When he finally looks up to Jack, the bigger man is staring at him with an intense expression.

Steve twists his face into a mocking, exaggerated grimace. "Oh, we're very serious today," he rasps. Fuck, he's thirsty. 

"I used to think you were so clever," Jack says, taking the can. "You pissed him off just enough to keep him interested, because you saw what he did to the others when he got bored of them. But you knew when to stop. Now you're just plain suicidal. Not that he doesn't deserve every second of humiliation you can dish out, but even he has a point where his infatuation with you won't overwhelm his desire to save face." 

"Thank you for that little kernel of wisdom. Now kindly tie me back up and fuck off." The blonde makes a big show of licking his lips, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Jack had been Steve's first human pincushion. Throughout the years he would accumulate several more; Clint had primarily served this role for quite a while but he'd done it to Buck more than once. Projecting all his frustration and anger onto people, who for whatever reason just suffered his behavior indefinitely with very little retaliation, had become something of a regular habit with him since meeting High Lord Taintly Knobgobble. Because his living punching bags themselves were far from perfect, he excused his own behavior towards them. After all, Jack had not stopped Brock, had he? So he deserved whatever Steve said to him. 

"I'm trying to help you," the big man responded, handing him a bottle of water.

"Oh, you're super helpful, Jack! You just did **so much** to stop Brock from kicking my ass all those times. Or from fucking my ass all those times for that matter. Oh wait." Steve dramatically eyes the ceiling. "No, you actually didn't. You moved into your fancy truck so that you didn't have to listen to it." The blonde fiddles with the cap but can't get it off with his shaking fingers; Jack reaches over and unscrews it . 

The blonde knows that talking about this subject makes the big man extremely uncomfortable, and he can see the guilt twisting his already permanently somewhat-twisted face. The better parts of Steve would feel some sort of sympathy for that, would argue that the man was in an impossible position surrounded by zealots who worshipped their paranoid, super violent leader with a fanatical devotion. They would say that Jack had already put himself at risk over and over again to give Steve what little protection or comfort he could offer. But those parts of Steve are usually silent these days.

"I was never okay with this, but what can I do?" Jack helps him steady the bottle as he tries to drink. 

"_Oh, gee, I don't know,_" the blonde says, tone dripping with sarcasm. "_Blow him the fuck up._" 

"We're not gonna have this conversation again. Even if he was out of the picture, the others would stop us or chase us if we managed to get away."

"Better to die young in the woods than live long in a cage," Steve retorts.

"You wanna be given to the cannibals he recruited? To be flayed alive? Or tossed to the foot soldiers so you can get bent over by every single one of them? There are worse things than this." 

"Easy for you to say when you're not being put in that position. Literally put in that position." 

"Just, please, behave during the day. In front of the others," Jack picks up the wire, then puts it down again when he sees how mutilated the blonde's wrists are. He takes gauze out of a pouch on his belt to wrap them. 

"I'm fucking bored, Jack." Steve pulls his arms away. "My whole life is this box and... and him." He grins, "maybe I need a hobby." 

"What do you suggest?" The bigger man cocks an eyebrow. 

"Well, fingering myself is out," the blonde says wistfully. 

Jack blanches, stares down at his boots. 

"I used to read a lot. Maybe you could get him to let me have a book." His tone for a brief second is almost hopeful, and he gives Jack a look he knows melts the other man. 

"On the next loot, I'll see what I can do." Jack offers him a hint of a smile. 

"You can't bandage my wrists. He'll know it was you." There it is, Steve offering a little crumb of returned concern for the bigger man to try to make a meal from. 

The big man convinced Brock to let Steve come along as they search a cluster of houses a few days later. Five Star General Colon Polyp had grudgingly admitted in the past Steve was an excellent scavenger, finding things the others missed. The blonde knew in a way he was helping his enemies, but it was the only fun he had left aside from playing increasingly dangerous mind games with his captor. Besides, maybe one day he'd find a hidden blowtorch and melt Brock's deceitfully handsome face off so he could never use it to trick anyone again. 

There was a bedroom at the back of the house, all boarded up, and after Captain Colossal Cockstain had assured himself there was no way out of the room and no obvious weapons, he ordered Steve to pick through it all and left, even closing the door. He probably thought Steve would be freaked out being alone with the corpse in the dim light.

"Hi, Edna," Steve says to it. Funny, the names people still used jokingly to refer to old ladies, given most of them now were named things like Braylen and Riley. 

He'd seen the bookshelf filled with hardcovers first, then a bunch of crafting supplies - a sewing kit, glue sticks, two pencil grip type exacto knives with the blades too short to really think it practical for a successful surprise murder - and then the suitcase. He'd thought of Taj and a plan had formed. When he'd showed the suitcase to Brock ten minutes later, full of books topped with the sewing kit, the big man had scoffed.

_"The fuck do I want with this?"_

"I thought I could keep it. I'm bored," Steve shrugged. He stares the bigger man down, even as Brock moves to grab him roughly by the arm. 

"Maybe I need to visit you more then." His hot breath on Steve's face makes him want to vomit, but the blonde's expression doesn't change. 

Jack speaks, calmly, from the doorway. "May as well let him have it, man. You know..." He takes a few steps closer, lowers his voice. "Some of the guys joke about how he acts to you. If that shuts him up, why not?" 

That was a gamble. Brock could just as easily have lashed out at Steve, maybe even killed him on the spot. _Big man who can take a bullet but cannot handle being laughed at._ Emperor Enema tears the contents of the suitcase apart, holds up the sewing kit when he's done.

"The fuck is this for?" 

"I know how to sew. I can fix uniforms, stitch wounds. I'm useful for more than _getting bent over_." He adds a tone to the last few words, just for Jack._ See, I was listening._

"I'll hold onto the needles," the big man glowers, putting the pack in his pocket. "Clean this shit up. If you can carry it, and lift it into the truck alone, you can keep it." He turns to the taller man. "You've torn your one ticket for helping him today."

When Brock storms from the room, Steve gives Jack the best smile he can manage with his busted face and the big man sheepishly smiles back. The taller man has no idea what he's just done.


	37. All the small things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve ropes Jack into part of his plan.
> 
> ***warning, direct discussion of rape and abuse***

Steve had long made a habit of stuffing his pockets with little things that could be useful - buttons, bobby pins, twist ties - and anything small and hard enough to be fired from his slingshot. Brock had of course thrown the weapon away the first night. It was the only thing the blonde had that once belonged to his birth father; he liked it because he knew Sarah Rogers had almost put the thieving asshole's eye out with it the last time she'd seen him, as he tried to steal her ancient television while baby Steve screamed in the next room. She had never pulled any punches talking about Joseph Rogers, whose severe, once-hidden drug addiction to prescription pills had probably contributed to Steve's health problems and small size. The stress of a sick, expensive, constantly crying baby escalated Joe's behavior into blatant dependency and physical violence. 

The blonde had learned many things from his mother - including sympathy for those struggling with the illness of addiction. Chief among the lessons was that abuse was not acceptable and not to be tolerated. No one had the right to hurt anyone else (reasonable self-defense or protection of another withstanding) or use you, no matter what your flaws. Your body was not for someone else's comfort or enjoyment - not your appearance, not your sexuality, not your actions - save in a healthy, equal relationship where both parties acted to make each other happy. She taught him to see the parasitical, gaslighting behavior that abusive people would engage in, to understand that they had a hole inside them that could never be filled but they would try their damnedest by sucking up the misery and devotion of others. Sometimes he wondered if her teachings were all that kept him going with Brock aside from his borderline-crazy stubborn streak.

The blonde had done as promised once he had the suitcase and the supplies inside, no longer working to humiliate his captor or intentionally irritate the man. He spent his time silently sewing, reading and helping administer first aid when needed. Some of the men call him faggot and other less than pleasant names, but he just silently revels in the extra pain he intentionally causes stitching them up or hides boogers in the collars of their shirts (sometimes he sees them dried to the backs of their necks days later). He does an excellent job at his tasks and after a while most of them have less to say, even Brock. 

There are members of the man's crew that can't look Steve in the face when they ask him to do a job - ones that feel shame at what is being done to him. This is especially true of some of the women. Certain men thinking women were objects to be used and discarded wasn't new to the world, only now there were no repercussions beyond what a woman and those she depended on could meet out. When the collapse happened, women became instant targets of degradation and homicide - the girl in the neighboring apartment that the guy could just never have, the ex-wife that had stilted someone, the female boss that had fired a guy because he didn't do his job, the total stranger who was just unlucky enough to be smaller and weaker. 

Men now outnumbered women nearly two to one, especially if you excluded women who were in slavery from the general population. Even supposedly hetorosexual guys regularly turned their violent sexual behavior towards smaller and more "feminine" men, like Steve, after the first few months of the fall. The easiest way to tell if a group were decent people was by how many (free) women - and younger men - were with them. As Sarah Rogers would say it was about how you treated people you didn't _have to_ be good to that showed your character.

Of course there were plenty of hardcore women in the world, before and after the collapse, but society had a long history of keeping most women from being ready and able to defend themselves. Learning things like hand to hand combat and weapons was still uncommon for women when Steve was growing up, despite the ever-increasing time gap between the foundations of feminism and his era. There were more female soldiers than ever, but the average gun owner was still far more likely to be a man. Teaching women that they needed to be dependent on someone else to protect them, that the way to get things done and survive was to be demure and agreeable, was still the norm an uncomfortable amount of the time before the collapse. Meanwhile, Steve felt like all he had been told by society as a male since he was born was that the way to solve his problems was through aggression and crushing down things like empathy.

Now that the blonde was allowed out of the truck a lot more, since his behavior had improved so much (wink wink), he was pocketing anything sharp that he could find. Little pieces of glass or metal, screws, nails, small stones. His ragged clothes don't leave much to the imagination at this point, so Brock just gives him a quick visual once-over to make sure it doesn't look like he has a weapon and never goes through the formality of patting him down anymore. Every bit of debris the blonde collects makes it back into the truck with him. 

Back in the old lady's room, he had used one of the exacto knives to make two small slits running on either side of the works for the handle over to the inside sections of each latch. Then he had slid a glue stick and an exacto inside each space and very carefully sewed the liner up with matching thread. To look at it, or even run your hand over it, just felt like internal supports ran beneath the fabric and the casing on that side of the suitcase. He sewed an identical seam around the inside of the back wall of the case as well, just for appearance's sake.

Whenever he had alone time in the back of Brock's truck, he'd open a book up about a third of the way, then cut a large rectangle out of the inside of the remaining contents, leaving about an inch border around the outside of the pages. Steve carefully glued every single page together of those with the big hole in the middle, forming a sort of box hidden inside with the first fifty to a hundred pages still normal. Then he would pack the secret compartment - as tight as possible, and with some of the removed portion of the pages shredded up in it, so that the stuff would not rattle around and make noise - with all of the pointy things he's collected. Once a hiding place was full, he'd glue down several of the solid pages over it to form a seal. This way he could still take the book out, flip through the front as if it was totally normal and no one could see a thing nor would anything fall out.

Once every book was hollowed out and refilled, save two (in case, god forbid, someone asked to borrow one), he would lift the case over and over to get stronger. He had to move it in front of the others in a way that it was not obvious it weighed a lot more than it had previously. Then there was the cut out paper to contend with. He'd eaten some of it at first (it was not like he was fed a lot and it helped his stomach feel full) but that had physiological ramifications after a while. He found the best way was to shred it super fine and fill his boots with the confetti, dumping then out the second his lower half was out of the line of sight of any of the others. Brock had taken to putting him on a heavy wire lead - like one used for a large dog in a yard, wrapped around Steve's waist and secured with a lock - so he could wander farther away to shit or help loot. It was easy to bury the paper with his waste or dump it into heating grates in buildings. 

Steve still resists when Brock approaches him at night. The bigger man never threatens the suitcase or really does anything to directly coerce the blonde into yielding sexually. The sadist tells the younger man he deserves punishment when he cuts or burns him, but never actually directly _tells him_ not to fight back. It's fairly obvious that the bigger man likes the struggle. Sick fuck. Steve knows that this is his ace in the hole, no pun intended, because acting submissive would be the easiest way to make the other man lose interest. 

There's a random day where the whole caravan is stopped, taking inventory and recovering from a fight. Brock is off somewhere getting reports from his unit commanders and leaves Steve outside tethered to the back of the truck to mend bodies and garments alike. The encampment is never without a plethora of armed guards, not at any hour of the day, so even if he did have something capable of cutting the heavy wire (or he picked the lock, which he was pretty sure he could do with a few minutes alone) he wouldn't make it thirty feet before he was shot in the back. Suddenly Jack sits down next to him, offers him a hot can of soup wrapped in a rag, a spoon already in it. 

"I have an idea," Steve says as he takes it.

"Oh, you're welcome. My day's going great, thanks. Yours?" the tall man quips, digging into his own can. 

"Hello, Jack. It's good to see you. Lovely weather we're having," the blonde says in his best Stepford Wife voice, wearing a plastic smile. "I have an idea." He takes a big bite of the soup. 

Jack sighs, grins. "What now?" 

The guards have wandered a bit off to avoid Jack. Even if the blonde isn't anywhere nearby, the big man bitches loudly about being spied on by the increasing number of patrols ever-loitering around. Brock's micro-managing and borderline fascist strategies have gotten to him. 

Steve's face goes serious as he swallows, his voice turning soft. "You want me to be with you, right? I'd like that too. " 

Jack's cheeks color. "I'm not an idiot. You flirt and play with me, but I know you don't want me like that." 

"Given the circumstances, I don't want anybody like that. I don't even want myself like that since I came to live in this fucking truck." It was true - he had tried to masturbate (to pass the time more than anything, but also because the thought of Brock slipping and falling in his load was hilarious) but he would just think about the time that the sadist grabbed his dick and couldn't even stay hard. "But that doesn't mean eventually things won't change if I was away from him. I like women, but I like men just as much." Jack gives him an unreadable look at that, takes a big bite. "Besides, I'm nice to look at if nothing else. A real trophy piece." Steve turns his face to show the most bruised part of it and hooks a finger into the corner of his mouth, pulling back to reveal two missing molars. "Total beauty pageant winner," he adds after he releases his cheek. "Really brighten up your truck."

Jack chuckles despite himself. "And how do you propose we make that move happen?" 

"You said before that you thought I was clever, pissing him off enough to make him stay interested. That was never my intention in resisting, I just...I have to, you know? But you're right that he's kept me around because he hasn't broken me totally. If I stopped fighting, he'd get bored." Steve takes another bite of food. 

"Yeah and kill you!" Jack's brows knit together as he plops his own can down hard. 

"Not if we maneuver him just right. I've heard you guys talking. There's some big job he really needs you for, something that has to be precise or whatever is inside'll get damaged. You can always act like you've lost faith in him to take you to that place. I know he's having trouble finding it. Get him to suck up to you, get him to offer you whatever you want." The blonde leans closer.

"He'll offer me to take someone else from one of the towns, or new equipment or some other bullshit. No way he hands over his prized possession." The big man's expression goes from intense to guilty. "No offense... I'm not saying...I know you're not a _thing_." 

Steve waves his hand. "It's whatever." He sighs, both of them eating for a bit in silence. "But if he was already losing interest in me, already prepared to get rid of me, he'll see it as a two birds with one stone scenario if he knows for sure you're interested. I've always noticed that he's quick with the stick, but he also uses the carrot to keep a lot of his people loyal. He knows that giving you something you want will go a lot farther to keep you on course than trying to threaten you." 

"If I asked for you directly, he'd know that we were up to something." The big man isn't wrong. Brock is no genius but he also isn't a fool and he's extremely suspicious. 

"He's not as dumb as we would love to think he is, sure. I picked up on you liking me a really long time ago, and I'm sure he's seen the way you look at me." 

Jack rolls his eyes. "What way?" 

Steve runs his finger around the inside of the can, pops it in his mouth, pulls it out slow with his lips tight around it. 

"_Okay, point made_. But how does that help us?" Jack looks down, scrapes his can.

"Well, I'll start to make things a little less interesting for him, plant the seed. If he complains to you, you can always throw out a comment about wanting to give me a try, getting me in line, something like that. He already knows you want to fuck me so put your cards on the table." Steve's voice is even, not a hint of embarrassment as he says it. 

The bigger man's mouth opens and closes several times before he stammers, "I-I-I wouldn't." He goes very quiet. "Not ever, _unless you wanted me to_." 

Steve wants to believe him, he really does. But the jaded, furious part of his mind that is largely pulling his strings whispers aggressively that this is a lie, that this man will only be patient until he isn't. Then it's face down on the cold metal. 

"Yeah but he doesn't know that," Steve plays along. "Maybe he thinks that giving me to you will be an entirely fresh hell for me. You wear like a thirteen shoe after all." Steve gives Jack a shit-eating grin. "Plus he'll think that it will keep you happy, get you to stick to the mission." 

"You're too fucking smart - and reckless - for your own good." 

"No, I'm too fucking smart to spend the rest of my life chained up, reading the same twenty books over and over again while I fix holes in douchebags' uniforms and get came in." The blonde finishes his soup. 

Jack sits in silence, just watching the younger man. "Okay, Stevie, okay," he finally says. "When do we start?"


	38. Movin' on up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve understands his attraction to Buck a little better. 
> 
> ***warning, direct discussion of rape and abuse***

It only takes two weeks of Steve gradually resisting less and less for Brock to become irritated. He starts to do increasingly depraved things and beats the younger man even more violently, trying to get a rise out of him. One day the ex operative is sitting side-by-side with Jack, having breakfast, near the remnants of last night's fire. They've just finished their dozenth heated conversation about the mission, the scarred man again not so subtly questioning if Brock still has a bead on their goal. He knows exactly how to push the issue without coming off as disrespectful, an important skill when dealing with a narcissist. 

The pair are finally eating in somewhat comfortable silence when Steve comes out of Brock's truck with the suitcase, putting it on the ground - he regularly sits on it outside. The lead is around his tiny waist already and after a wobbly stretch he plants himself cross-legged on the case and starts reading. His battered face looks like an impressionist painting it's so many different colors and he's moving like he's been thrown from a horse. The leader stops chewing and starts staring daggers at the blonde. 

"Trouble in paradise?" Jack jokes. 

He had realized early on that he could get a lot farther helping Steve if his associate didn't overtly know that he disapproved of what was happening. During the initial few months when they were all living together, he had played along to some degree as if it was no big deal, as if he was just annoyed with the intrusion of this snot-nosed kid (and Brock wanting the truck to himself so much) rather than dealing with any sort of moral issue. The few times when he'd directly asked (or insulted) Brock about it, he'd been met with harsh blowback and he only hurt Steve more. 

Jack learned to frame his attempts to help the blonde as ultimately helping Brock - _ let me make sure your toy doesn't starve/bleed to death/hurt himself so you're not salty about your plaything being gone once you calm down_. It's hard for the blonde to give the big man any credit for this - if roles were reversed, he'd cut Brock's throat in his sleep before he'd let him put a hand on someone else that way, consequences to them both be damned. It's years before he can admit to himself that Jack's way had kept Steve alive and maybe the bullheaded voice that said "better to have both died then" was wrong. 

Brock glares at Jack, then his face softens a bit, twists into a smile that can only be described as menacing. "He's been...less fiery than usual. I'll have to give him some more encouragement. Nothing I can't handle." 

"I seem to remember him getting pretty worked up when you threw him in to sleep with the dregs. He busted a lot of faces. Maybe he needs a little _strange_ to get the adrenaline going." Jack smirks, chokes down his disgust. 

"And you wouldn't have anyone in mind, would you, **Jack**?" Brock gives a knowing look to his lieutenant. 

The taller man laughs. "Caught!" He leans in conspiratorially. "You've probably guessed I've always wanted to know what that ass was like. I could definitely help set him straight for you." 

"Like I want your sloppy seconds." Brock makes a fake grimace.

"Well fuck," the taller man smirks, "I'd take yours. If you decide you're bored with him, pitch him my way." Jack openly laughs, claps the other man on the shoulder.

"Please, I've ruined that one for other men." Brock pops a pear slice into his mouth. 

"For most probably, but I wear a size thirteen shoe," the bigger man smirks, Steve's words coming out of his mouth. It gets a genuine laugh out of Brock. 

Over the next few weeks, Steve goes from offering moderate resistance to basically playing possum. The coup de grace to their "arrangement" comes after Brock desperately tries to force himself on the pliant Steve but can't get hard. The bigger man grabs him by the throat in frustration, hauls him up on his knees, twists him around to pin him to the wall. He's furious, eyes bulging out, red-faced. 

The blonde had always refused to fellate him, repeatedly telling him that he would bite his cock off - regardless of what was done to him - if he tried to put it in his mouth. But this time Steve just looks up at Brock without a hint of defiance and takes a hold of his soft prick, leans forward with his mouth open. The bigger man slams his hand against the blonde's forehead, bashing Steve's skull into the wall of the cargo box. 

Minutes later, Brock dumps the blonde's naked, battered body on the cold ground outside Jack's door. He pounds his meaty fist on the metal.

"Special delivery," the sadist grins when Jack cautiously opens his door.

"This a loaner or a gift?" the bigger man makes a show of nudging Steve with his huge boot.

"I know we've been at odds a bit lately, but the mission _will be_ successful. This is to show you that your faith in me as your friend is not misplaced. He's all yours." 

The two men shake hands, both smiling. "Consider me convinced, old pal," Jack responds. 

Steve is severely disoriented, the back of his bleeding head leaving a trail on the step up and the floor as Jack makes a show of dragging him roughly up into the back of his truck. 

"Sorry, sorry," he soothes a few moments after the door is sealed and Steve is sat up against the metal side of the truck body. He gently rubs the red spot where he'd grabbed the blonde's forearm, then tosses a blanket over the smaller man's lap. After checking the peep holes all around the vehicle, Jack steps out and comes back with the suitcase. Brock must have chucked it out of his truck. 

The blonde's mind is fuzzy and he grays in and out. He's only vaguely aware of the bigger man bandaging his head, washing him up (he can smell actual soap), then putting some sort of cream on the open wounds on his back and face. Jack slides the first pair of clean clothes on him that he has worn in over a year, a sweatsuit that he doesn't actually swim in. The entire time the tall man is softly apologizing for touching him and assuring him that everything will be okay, that he's safe, that not even Jesus could get in the truck. Jack keeps him awake til he's responding somewhat normally and can drink water on his own, fearful of letting him drift off with a possible concussion. When the big man finally lets him lay down again, he has his first full night of rest in over twenty months. 

Steve goes through a long sleep-eat-bathroom-sleep-eat-sleep-some-more-then-repeat phase. Maybe it's finally having a bedroll and blankets, maybe it's feeling relatively safe for the first time in a long time, but it's like almost two years worth of exhaustion and hunger hits him all at once. When he's consistently awake normal hours, but still eating everything in sight though, he and Jack fall into an easy routine. The bigger man makes their meals, checks the blonde's injuries, comments on how nice they are or are not healing (doctoring them up in the latter case), then asks about his discomfort level.

The smaller man sometimes, but not often, accepts half a pain pill to deal with his three cracked ribs. Everything still hurt, but that was arguably the worst of it. He doesn't like how it makes him feel during the day, dopey and slow, but even more can't stand the thought of becoming like his pillhead father. They're fine at night though, when he can just drift off after. Even the angry, paranoid voice doesn't think Jack will try anything so soon. It tells him Jack will attempt to win him over and then, when that doesn't work, he'll force him. It gives Steve two months, tops. As soon as he can stand not to, he refuses the pills all together. 

Unlike the leader, the scarred man takes the blonde wherever he goes once he's well enough. They ride together in the cab if it's a travel day (no one else is allowed in Jack's truck, not even a driver, even though he's more than important enough to have one), or loot together when the caravan stops. No one comments on the lack of the wire tether because he never leaves Jack's eye-line - doing that would invite Brock or one of the others to mess with him. If there's a battle, Steve is sent to the cargo trailer. He's in no position to argue - he's about twenty pounds under his scant normal weight, limping a bit and still gets tired easily. 

At least twice when they're caught unawares during scavenging he jumps on some bigger guy's back to slow him down while Jack finishes him off. Brock wouldn't take kindly to him having any kind of a weapon, even as weak as he is and even if it was non-projectile. Neither of the ex operatives have any idea Steve could pick most of the locks on the explosives' storage containers if he wanted. Jack religiously inventories the stuff - he'd know if some went missing - and the blonde isn't ready yet to say fuck it and blow the whole thing with himself inside. Plus he doesn't know how to use the detonators.

The two months his inner monologue gave him come and go without incident. The scarred man teaches Steve about his work after he notices the blonde watching him - positioning C4 and setting up the equipment to blow it - with rapt interest. He's always been impressed with the smaller man's mind, commenting on how quickly he learns and how clever he is, and that admiration seems to only increase the more time they spend together. Jack asks one day if Steve thinks the large lump of explosive he's holding will be enough to take down a heavy steal door with multiple locks the others had been battering at. The smaller man answers, without hesitation, that he just needs a little to blow the sheathed hinges off - no one that had apprenticed with him in the service or ops had gotten that question right the first time. He teaches Steve how to set the detonator as his reward.

Jack finds out the blonde can drive his manual transmission truck (and lets him sometimes, much to Brock's chagrin) and maintenance its diesel engine. The smaller man can also fix a lot of other things, knows tools and how to make certain parts work for things they weren't intended for. What a waste, Jack commented, having him imprisoned all those years while thing after thing fell into disrepair. They had legions of killers, but virtually no one with other practical skills. Like Buck, Jack knew about destruction, but very little about creation. 

It's not lost on the leader how increasingly comfortable Jack and Steve are with each other. Brock glowers at them as they chat amiably and share meals sat a bit apart from the other men around the fires they so often light. The blonde notices and makes a big show of touching the scarred man more, leaning against him or putting his hand on the bigger man's leg, smiling and laughing often, even kissing his cheek once. The tall man is a bit upset when he tries to mirror the affection in private and the blonde gets standoffish. 

"So you're just doing it to piss him off?" Jack sounds impressed and disappointed all at once. 

"Yes. No. It's just... scary when we're alone," Steve explained, looking into his lap. And it's true. He's found despite Jack's many sins, and the warning voice, he doesn't mind them touching when he's sure it won't lead to anything he doesn't want. Even Brock had never taken him in front of the others and he certainly knew the bigger man - who barely liked to leave the truck shirtless he was so shy about his body - wasn't going to. 

"Okay, Stevie. I get it, just... You don't have to be scared of me. Don't think because you let me put my hand on your shoulder, or wherever, that I'm going to take that as an invitation to anything else. What I said before was true. We don't ever have to do anything you don't want."

_**Liar,**_ the seething internal voice replies. The blonde just nods. He wants the voice to shut up. He wants to believe Jack. He wants to think about something, anything, that isn't revenge, especially now that he knows how to use the detonators.

Jack plays along with Steve's game, laughing loudly at the smaller man's whispered jokes, his arm slung around the narrow shoulders when they're with the other warriors. Brock slowly behaves more and more erratically as it eats at him. He knows he's been played, but under the unspoken rules of their crew he can't demand the gift he's given back without being seen as someone who breaks his word or (worse) is weak over a piece of ass.

The scarred man doesn't openly sew seeds of discontent against the leader, but he does subtly add water when he comes across any that are already planted. He and Steve hope, in private, Brock's other increasingly dissatisfied high command will rebel against him. The leader is picking fights constantly, acting more paranoid and violent than ever, even knifing a low-level follower when they don't attend demands to his satisfaction. None of the poor souls he picks off the road last more than a day, which fills Steve with intense guilt. It wasn't like he stopped abducting and forcing other people when he held Steve captive, but it was fewer at least.

Steve starts to be cautiously physical when he's alone with Jack, letting their legs touch when they sit near each other or fixing the bigger man's hair, even occasionally slipping under the blankets to press against his back when it's cold or he's had a nightmare. Jack had woken him from one once and the blonde grabbed the knife from its holster on the bigger man's belt, put it to the scarred neck for his trouble. It took long minutes to talk the blonde down, his shaking hand moving the blade around just enough to draw blood. Steve had apologized and then went blank, inside himself, shutting out the flood of emotions. When he woke the next day, a fold-up style pocket knife was on the floor next to his bedroll. It's not lost on the smaller man it's also referred to as a jackknife. 

"If that makes you feel better, keep it. Don't use it unless you have to though." 

It's also not lost on the blonde, years later, how much his early time with Buck mirrored this period with Jack - minus the attempted throat slitting - or the many similarities between the men. Both were tall with dark hair and light eyes, had extensive military training and a bit of a strong, silent type thing going on. The brunettes obviously felt unworthy of the smaller man's attention, even though they craved it, just as on some level he felt undeserving of their devotion. Like Buck, Jack gave zero shits about the comments others made about the nature of their relationship. 

Maybe that's why Steve had gotten comfortable with the Winter Soldier so quickly. Maybe that's also why he'd looked for any excuse to not admit his feelings. Maybe that's why he _literally_ ran away and is sitting in the blazing sun on a dusty hillside next to a dump thinking about things he's blocked out for years instead of being in his own clean, comfortable bed comforting his exhausted boyfriend.


	39. Fire in the hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets more than he bargained for with Steve.

One evening Steve and Jack are making a display of flirting in front of a blatantly staring Brock when the scarred man gets carried away and kisses Steve's neck several times. It's soft and dry - more affectionate than erotic - but still sends a little thrill though the blonde, the kind he hadn't experienced in years. That night, or more precisely early the next morning, his mind reproduces the feel of Jack's lips and big, warm hands on him while he sleeps. He smiles groggily at the tall man when he wakes him for breakfast in the middle of it. Normally he'd let Steve sleep as long as he wanted but the caravan is on the move early today. 

The blonde yawns, propping up one elbow as the bigger man sets an open can of pineapple next to his bedroll. 

"I was dreaming about you," the smaller man says. 

Jack grins as he stands, stretches his big arms up to hold onto one of the pipes in the ceiling, showing a tiny sliver of his flat stomach and the trail of hair there. "Yeah? Was I skiing?"

"It wasn't a cold dream. It was a hot dream." Steve's tone, and the warmth in his blue eyes, makes the bigger man still for a moment. 

A look of fond irritation spreads over Jack's face as he puts his hands at his sides. "What have I told you about that? You don't need to lie to me." 

The scarred man's voice isn't angry, just matter of fact. He's told the blonde repeatedly he doesn't need to flirt with him (outside of what they do to piss off Brock) or insinuate they'll have a sexual relationship for Jack to keep protecting him. He has no plans to remove Steve from his truck, regardless of whether their situation remains only friendship. 

"Would I lie?" The blonde bats his massive eyelashes. 

Jack smirks. "You? Absolutely."

Steve impulsively pushes the blankets down to his thighs, reveals his tented sweatpants. The bigger man freezes, open mouthed. Steve gives him a smug I-told-you-so-look, eyebrows popping up and back down suggestively.

"Do you...want some help with that?" Jack asks, cautiously optimistic, pink spreading across his high cheekbones.

Steve, still grinning, pulls the covers back up. "Not today," he says pleasantly enough. 

"Okay, Stevie." After a pause during which Steve can see the big man carefully packing his libido away, Jack adds, "You are lying to me though," as the blonde sits up.

"About what?" Steve asks innocently, putting a dainty bite of fruit in his mouth.

"That's a very heavy suitcase," Jack replies, as if it's an answer, dropping down to squat on the floor.

"Books are weights for the mind." The blonde smiles at him beatifically. 

"_Little smart ass_. So is what's in there for Brock?" The big man fixes him with a look. 

"He's not much of a reader." The smaller man shrugs, picking up a big pineapple chunk burrowed deep in the can with his long, clever fingers.

"Not the novels. The IED." Jack sits down right in front of him, the small metal cylinder the only barrier between them. 

"Now, how would a sweet faced little thing like me know what that is?" Steve reaches to Jack, slides the fruit in his mouth, staring the other man down with a flirty look as the blonde's finger tips graze his lips. This was a maneuver he'd end up using again. 

"Well played," the bigger man responds, around the huge chunk. "But I know all your tricks." 

Jack chews intensely, their eyes locked in the millionth small battle of wills they've fought with each other over the last few years. 

"The improvised explosive device, just missing the explosive bit. Which I can't help but notice you've conveniently maneuvered yourself into a truck filled with." Jack doesn't sound mad. Maybe even a bit impressed. But there's a hint of something there, an undercurrent of that _you'll get us both killed_ tone the blonde has heard many times before. 

"Mmmm...still not ringing a bell." Steve has the art of chewing sarcastically down pat - pushing the food in slow exaggerated arcs inside his cheeks, first to one side and then the other, making as much noise as possible. 

Jack's voice goes low, finally done with their game. "The goddamn shrapnel bomb you built, Stevie."

"Oh. Oh that." The blonde chuckles softly. "There was this guy I used to know, Taj. He told me this story... about a suitcase bomb. He said _that's what happens when the military fucks with the little guy. They make anything they can into a weapon_." 

He stands up, walks to the shelf the suitcase is lashed to, and reverently opens the two foot by three foot monument to his ingenuity, perseverance and need for revenge. _A dish best served cold, his narrow ass._

"I'm a little guy. And this is my weapon." 

"And how did you plan to use this weapon, if you could arm it?" Jack twists on the floor to watch him. 

"You said it yourself, it's not enough to just kill Brock. His men would come after us, the devoted ones at least."

"There's less and less of them everyday, though." The big man moves to join him, standing beside him rather than behind, which he knows the blonde doesn't like. "If we wait...."

"How many more people does he rape and murder while we wait? How many more people do _they all_ while we wait?" Steve sets his hands on the books, a silent prayer to the god of the boom - as Jack likes to call it - to bless him. 

"They're not all like him. Some of them hate him just as much as...." Jack trails off.

"As much as me?" Steve's head whips to look up at the bigger man. He laughs bitterly. "I highly doubt that." 

"Still. I served with a lot of these people. Things would change if they were in charge. If we were in charge. We could right this ship if a few people just went overboard. " 

"We? Meaning you and **me**? I'm gonna help run things? Your pet. Your prag. Your bitch," the blonde spits. 

_And it started as such a nice morning._

"You know I don't think of you like that." Jack's eyebrows furrow as he reaches for Steve, then aborts the gesture. "I want him dead too. I thought about it now and again, before you were even in the picture, when I started to see what _he really is_ now that there are no rules, no one for him to answer to. And I should have, years and years ago, before he was the personal Jesus of an entire congregation of savages. By the time he snatched you, I was thinking about it a half dozen times a day, then it was thirty, a hundred. Now the thought is always there, no matter what."

Steve turns towards him abruptly, pokes one of his long, spindly fingers into the center of the scarred man's chest. "But you **didn't** kill him did you?! You let him fuck me over and over for nearly two years while you hid in here!!"

"Things were different two years ago, with the other lieutenants. They still had blind loyalty. His guards watched everything we both did, every move we made and they still do. I would have been dead five minutes after he was and you would have been chained to some other asshole or a corpse right beside me!" Jack lightly grabs Steve's biceps when he turns to walk away. "And the world is still what the world is now, regardless of him! _We need to be practical to survive._ The caravan is the best way to do that. People don't last on their own, not even someone as dangerous as me or as smart as you."

"I was on the road alone a long time before you fucks! I can handle myself!" And didn't this argument with Jack flood his mind, years later, having almost the same one with Buck by the run trucks. 

"It was only a matter of time before some other piece of shit would have done the same thing to you! Only someone with no truck to keep you in or extra food probably would have killed you a lot faster. And possibly fucking ate part of you first." 

"I'D RATHER BE DEAD!" Steve screams up at him, wrenching his arms from the loose grip. "I would have rather died out there, quick, than have to die slow trapped here with him!" 

"Then why aren't you dead? Why aren't we all?" He grips the blonde's wrists carefully and the smaller man only offers half-hearted resistance. "I know you could find a way into one of these crates. It's scary how fucking clever you are. And you know how to use the detonators now, I stupidly made sure of that. So why haven't you rigged up your suitcase and taken it to the fire when they're all there? You were so fucking smart, bringing the case around all the time to sit on. The guards search the rest of us, but they just let you haul that stupid thing right up and sit down, every council meeting. Pop it open, what's inside? A bunch of fucking books. Nothing to see here. So why didn't you do it?" 

"Fuck you!" Steve screams in his face. Jack doesn't release him, only pulls him closer.

"Better yet, why not blow the whole truck? A few well-placed charges while I'm asleep or out taking a shit and blammo! So why aren't we all vaporized already? Why isn't the whole camp a smoking crater?" Jack hunches over him, inches from his face that's slowly caving in on itself. As the big man rants, the blonde's lips start to quiver, jaw working, cheek twitching; his eyebrows draw up and towards the center of his forehead, eyes starting to glisten. Steve can see himself reflected in the bigger man's pupils as Jack's expression softens, as he reaches up to lightly ghost the knuckles of his curled fingers over Steve's cheek. "Why, Stevie?"

"Unless you were in on the plan....there was no way to be sure..." the blonde practically whispers before dropping into silence, averting his eyes.

"That you'd succeed?" 

"That you wouldn't get hurt," the smaller man's voice cracks as he looks up at Jack.

Jack leans forward, presses his forehead to Steve's. "Well I'm in on it now. We'll give it a month, and if the others haven't dealt with him...We'll do it. We'll blow the son of a bitch up and the rest of them too."

Two weeks later Brock thwarts an assassination attempt by several of his top people, then he cleans house. Virtually everyone who had spoken against him in any capacity, or were close with those who had, is summarily executed. Jack is in no position to argue or help them - it all happens very quickly and any question of his loyalty would have him on his knees next to them. Half of the other lieutenants are dead before he even knows what's happening, Brock ordering him to go back in his truck when he comes out. The leader promotes people from the ranks of the dregs, even cannibals (one step away from reavers), to fill the many holes in his war council. 

The blonde and the scarred man ready the suitcase immediately, start going over best and worst case scenarios for its deployment. They can't just rig the truck and run with the insane amount of security Brock now has stationed throughout the high and low camps - they'd be caught and then killed in the blast or murdered outright. 

A few days later they reach _the place_. Brock was intensely secretive about it - he'd only told Jack, not long after the collapse, that it contained high-tech weapons, ones they could use to rule half the continent if they wanted. The tall man doesn't need to take down the massive blast doors - they're unlocked when they make their way into the hidden shaft that goes to the underground lobby they face. The leader goes inside with his best twenty tactical soldiers - his screams of rage punctuate the air not long after.

"Someone fucking beat us here!" he hisses at Jack, reemerging. The big man puts himself more firmly between the furious Brock and Steve. "These are all inactive and one's missing!" 

One of the ex ops guys comes out. "Sir, we've found someone." 

An hour later Steve is watching a shriveled, ancient man even shorter than him drink tomato soup. Apparently he'd worked at the base years ago and he knew there was another. The missing weapon had been taken there for upgrades but never recovered from storage because of the increasing pre-collapse turmoil. Brock is ecstatic. The man is settled into his own truck in the second camp with a bevy of armed guards and equipment from the base.

"I don't like this," Jack whispers to him that night as they share a bedroll. They've done that every day since the tall man committed to killing Brock. Steve likes to pretend that he's doing him a favor, that it's the least he can do given the circumstances, but he has certainly slipped beneath the big man's covers on his own plenty of times before. "There's something off about the guy. He looked like he was two hundred years old if he was a day. And what was all that shit they brought with him? I think we need to move up our timeline. I don't even want to know what's at that other base." 

Their first attempt doesn't go as planned. Steve brings the big case to the fire like always, opening it calmly and taking out one of the books that is still whole. He closes it back up, slowly sits down on it next to Jack. He's already set the detonator and they're both counting silently the way that the bigger man had taught him to do to ensure that his timing was perfect. The plan is that Steve will say something about needing to go to the bathroom at a certain point, and he and Jack (ever his keeper) will wander off long enough for it to do its job. 

Someone comes from the lower camp with news, whispered in Brock's ear quiet enough that they cannot overhear; he looks elated and then leaves. The shape of the man's teeth as he gave that terrifying smile, and the glimmer in his eye that accompanied it, scared Steve a thousand times more than Buck's appearance at its most monstrous ever could. At least part of the Winter Soldier was still human. 

The second attempt cuts it very close. When Steve gets up to go to the woods, Brock grabs his skinny wrist as he walks by. Jack freezes a few feet away as the leader pulls the small man a little closer.

"You're getting kind of fat. And you've got that shit all over your face," he motions to Steve's now fairly thick beard. "Playing at being a man are we?" 

Every line in Jack's body says that he wants to leap at Brock, but Steve gives him a look that stills him. The detonator is counting. There's no time for shenanigans. 

"Why don't you just pull your little cock out here and piss? Show them all you're not a girl after all." He shoves the blonde lightly back. Some of the crew leaders taken from the dregs are chuckling, but most of the older ex-ops people just look terrified or uncomfortable. 

"Sure, whatever you say." Steve unzips, pisses into the fire, unceremoniously shakes it off and puts it back in his pants. Brock just laughs as he stands and starts to undo his own fly.

"**Brock,**" Jack says, his tone a warning. 

"Mind your own fucking business, Jack. The old man can just punch some buttons and get me into the other place. You've become a whole lot less useful." Brock starts to piss on the ground a few feet from Steve's boot, slowly getting closer and closer as the blonde watches. Finally when it's only a fraction of an inch away, Brock turns and finishes going on a burning log, laughing. He zips up, turns to Steve. 

"I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire," he practically spits into the blonde's face. "Get this fucking thing away from me!" He gestures dismissively to the tall man. 

"Let's go, Stevie," Jack's hand is firm on his shoulder, the suitcase under the other man's arm. There's no time to make it to the woods - they disarm it in the truck with seconds to spare. 

They pick a better spot next time, one where they can easily make a beeline to the trees without the leader in the way. Steve stands, like before, counting inside his head as the time on the detonator silently winds down and Jack moves to follow. 

210

209

208

"Come'ere," Brock beckons to the blonde. 

"Just leave him alone, man," Jack says, standing. 

Brock nods his head to some of the guards, always lingering nearby. Two of them grab Jack by the arms while the other pair drag Steve over to the leader. Brock pulls the blonde down onto his lap with their help, wraps his muscular arm around the small man in such a way that it pins his arms to his body. 

"This is just like our first date," Brock coos. "You were such a pretty little thing then." He grabs Steve's soft cock roughly through his pants. "You'd never even been jerked off."

"Don't you fucking touch him!" Jack yells.

Brock's arm tightens, his other hand squeezing harder between Steve's legs. "So I've made a decision, and it's really weighing heavy on my heart. See, I'm a man of my word and I gave you to Jack. But Jack didn't get you fair and square, did he? You two fucks tricked me. I don't like to play the fool, not for anybody, not even you sweetie pie. Not even for my oldest friend." 

He nods at the others again. With the help of a third guard they force Jack on his knees, the one in back pulling a pistol to put it to his head.

175

174

173

"Say goodbye to, Jack, sweetie pie. Say goodbye real nice." 

168

167

165

Jack suddenly jerks violently to one side, right before the weapon goes off, as he slams one of his big elbows into the gut of the guy behind him. He grabs the guard's neck as they double over, snaps it and whips the body forward into one of the others. No one is allowed weapons at war council meetings save the guards, so the others sit and watch at first. He grabs the gun from the dead man, fires repeatedly into the other guards. One of the cannibal lieutenants flies at him and Jack shoots him twice. When he whirls to aim at Brock, the leader is already laughing. The gun is empty. Micro-managing bastard even knew how many bullets were in his lackey's weapon. 

98

97

96

The tall man screams and runs at Brock, another guard shooting him in the bicep as he dives onto his former friend, knocking Steve sprawling into the scrub grass. A violent hand-to-hand scuffle ensues on the ground. Jack is bigger and well-trained, but killing people with his hands has been Brock's bread and butter for most of his life. As the tall man slams his big fist into Brock's neck, the leader pulls a hidden knife and shanks the bigger man between the ribs. Jack slugs him squarely, grasps at the deeply buried blade. Steve gets up, moves to jump on Brock, but Jack's words stop him.

"Tic tock." 

Jack throws himself on Brock in a bear hug. The leader grabs the knife handle and wiggles it but Jack doesn't let go, not even when he coughs out blood. 

"Twenty-five!" the scarred man manages to Steve over Brock's shoulder. "Twenty-four!" The remaining guards and several council members pile on him.

The blonde turns on his heel and runs as fast and hard as he ever has. He can hear Jack counting for what feels like a long time and then nothing but the sound in his own head.

15

14

13

He hears the crack-whiz of someone firing at him, the yells of those giving chase.

9

8

7

He scans from side to side, searching for the widest, sturdiest tree.

4

3

2

Steve flattens himself to the back of a massive oak as the explosion shakes the ground. Thousands of small objects pelt the trees like hail.


	40. What goes up must come down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's time at Brock's camp comes to an end.
> 
> ***Non-graphic depiction of sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of injury and violence***
> 
> Turning the corner into less dark shit shortly, I promise.

It feels like a small eternity before Steve's ears stop ringing and his body is under control enough that he can move. There's something warm on his left arm. He reaches up and touches it gingerly, pulling it back red with blood. Apparently he had not gotten behind the tree completely quite quick enough. Investigation of the slash in his jacket shows the wound beneath is wide but shallow.

The blonde breathes hard and fast. He desperately does not want to come out from behind the oak, does not want to see what he fears will be waiting for him. Ironic that, to finally have achieved the thing that he daydreamed about for months and yet be unable to enjoy the results, to kill the person that he hates most at the expense of the only one living that he cares about. Slowly, he pulls himself from the bark and moves back through the woods towards the encampment. 

Every tree, including the west facing side of the one he had been behind, had dozens of shards of glass, nails, screws and bits of metal in it. There are chunks of ceramic plates, bits of barbed wire, even hard pieces of plastic worn sharp by their time in gravel or rocky soil before he found them. The first body is about thirty feet from the trees, the entire bottom of a smashed glass bottle impaled in their cervical vertebrae, along with other smaller objects sticking out of the entire back of their body. It's one of the guards - he takes the handgun they dropped. 

Some of the remaining lieutenants are still moving or making noise. He sees one of the cannibals that had given him chase crawling slowly across the scrub and shoots them in the head. One by one, he does the same to everyone he comes across that he is not positive is dead. Sometimes, in his nightmares, he still hears their sounds and feels the vibration up his arm as the weapon goes off. This was not what he had wanted, for these strangers to suffer, especially the ones that Jack had vouched for previously. None of them were innocent though; now neither was he.

Finally he reaches the tall man - he's face down on the ground and Steve's human pincushion analogy comes back to him with a sickening force. A few parts of Jack have no shrapnel. He was probably blocked by the men that he was struggling with, all of whom are shredded to pieces on the ground around him, some of them with their limbs draped over the big man. There are many things impaled in his back, in his skull, and when Steve turns him on his side and pushes up his bloody sweatshirt he can see nearly a dozen small holes where objects passed completely through, along with the gaping, almond shaped wound where Brock had stabbed him. 

Judging from his location, and guessing about how far the blast itself may have pushed him, it looks like he dragged the entire pile of them closer to the bomb in his struggles before it went off. It's terrible to see him like that, worse still when Steve realizes he is alive. The blonde goes blank, numb, as the big man struggles to breath, blood pouring out of his mouth, runners of it coming from his nose and ears, oozing from the holes in his chest and abdomen. If the smaller man were the most accomplished surgeon in the world, he could not save him. 

He sits down on the blood soaked earth and takes Jack's hand because he doesn't know what else to do. It's already going cold. The gun is empty - he can't even end his suffering quickly, not that he has any idea if he could pull the trigger. Steve leans down and softly kisses Jack on the neck several times. 

"That's what you were doing to me, in my dreams," he whispers in the brunette's ear. 

"S-S-Stevie," the big man manages, his hand squeezing the blonde's for the briefest second and then going slack. Steve sits up, watches as his hazel eyes seem to power down like old fashioned headlights dimming once the switch is flipped. 

Steve screams as his pain and rage and utter helplessness to do anything boil over. It's the most primal sound he had ever made, probably would ever make, in his life. He sits there for long moments, his breath making little clouds in the cold night air as he pants, mind scrambled. Jack's lighter - an ancient Zippo he'd watched him fill many times - lays on the ground glinting at him; he palms it and slips it in his coat pocket without thought. Slowly his internal voice starts to form sentences. One sticks out above the rest. 

_ **Where the fuck is Brock?** _

No more has he said the words inside his head then he is struck from behind by a piece of firewood. Lightning bolts of pain spread up and down his spine and for a long minute he's too stunned to do anything but sprawl face down on Jack's bloody corpse. A big, familiar hand grabs him by the back of the hair, bending his neck to look up; a fist smashes quick into his eye, then cheek, then mouth before he's dragged, flailing, towards Brock's truck. 

The bigger man hoists him up and pins him against the side of the metal box trailer with a hand on the back of his neck. When Steve moves to resist, to reach behind himself, Brock pulls him slightly back and then slams his head into the side of the truck again and again. Everything is spinning and gray by the time he's stilled, a high-pitched, staticy noise inside his brain blotting everything out. Warm blood trickles down his face and from his split lip. He's vaguely aware of the bigger man yanking down his pants, of _the thing_ being done to him that's been done so many times, the thing that he truly believed - this morning - would never happen to him ever again. 

That very specific pain brings him back to himself enough to fumble in his pocket, fingers groping for the jackknife, thumb finding the bump on the blade that lets it be opened one handed. He swings it up quick, twisting around, embedding it in the bigger man's neck, then yanks it sideways towards Brock's windpipe in a quick gesture as he applies pressure. Hot blood sprays onto his hand and suddenly he's not being touched anymore. Steve turns to watch the thing, the monster that would haunt his nightmares until the day that he died, clutching at its throat with wide eyes as red pours between its fingers. It - he - looks very silly. And very afraid. 

The blonde pulls his pants up, wipes the knife on them, pockets it. He opens the back of Brock's truck, takes one of the gas cans lashed there and unscrews the top. Brock is half on the ground now, probably woozy from the sudden drop in blood pressure. The bigger man clutches at his neck, but there's already a dark stain soaking down his mutilated shirt all the way to the waistband of his still-undone pants. Steve only needs to get about five feet away to splash him with the contents of the container. He pulls out Jack's lighter, flicks it down his leg like the scarred man had taught him, holds it up so he can see the flame reflected in Brock's eyes.

"I wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire," Steve says, a crazy smile on his battered face. 

He tosses the Zippo at Brock and the thing, the monster - now a terrified, wet mess on his knees in the dirt - goes up like a torch. After what feels like hours of watching him scream and flail and blacken, Steve's own personal devil collapses and stops moving. The blonde watches him burn with relish. Something like Jack's voice and the bullheaded part of him talk in the back of his mind almost in unison, reminding him that this is only stage one of the plan, that those in the low camp will have heard the explosion and are headed here.

After transferring the bags that they had prepared from Jack's truck to Brock's, along with the big man's bedroll (he leaves his own) the blonde sets the wires and detonators just like the tall man showed him. Then he gets out and, after a brief last look, seals up Jack's truck. No one can get in without the code, not unless they've got a cutting torch or a very heavy duty angle grinder and neither would get through in time.

He's not digging on Brock's smoking body to find his keys, and they may even be on one of the lackeys, so he just hot wires the (former) leader's truck. Steve's countdown is flawless. Right on time a massive explosion, punctuated by multiple smaller booms, shakes the ground beneath him as he drives, now over a mile away. In the rearview mirror, he sees the giant fireball shoot towards the sky.

"Goodbye, Jack," he says to it, watching the flame dissipate into the star-punctuated darkness above like it was his soul being released from the Earth. Maybe it was. Maybe the god of the boom had a nice place for people who spent their life blowing shit up, like a pyromaniac version of Valhalla. Steve says a silent prayer to whatever is listening that his friend makes it there.

It's only about four hours later as he's rummaging through a building for food, as Brock had greatly reduced their rations in the weeks leading up to his overdue demise, that he encounters Nick and the others. Apparently they had discovered that the small army was headed in the direction of their community and decided to be proactive, coming after them in the night rather than waiting for them to show up at their doorstep. They had already searched the blast site, drawn by the explosion, and found it littered with body parts and burnt corpses. Any remaining followers who were not caught in the explosion of Jack's truck must have scattered. Most of the caravan trucks were on fire, or damaged with debris, but there were a few sets of tire tracks leading away. 

He told them everything, well...almost everything. Steve can't bring himself to talk about Jack, and hasn't since. It felt a little dishonest, taking credit for the whole thing. He did have the original idea, built the bomb, and Jack had let him put in the explosives and set the detonator. Ultimately Brock fell at his hand, even though the cost had been enormous. Certainly talking about the scarred man wouldn't bring him back, so he just left those parts out, along with the specifics of what Brock had done to him (not that Clint hadn't guessed). 

It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the whole truth. 

He stays at the yard for days after running from Claptrap, from Buck, going over everything that happened all those years ago in graphic detail again and again for the first time since that day. The mindless labor of hauling trash helps free his thoughts up to shamelessly dwell on every minute detail. Greta and a group of well-armed trashers arrived to replace the current rotation on the sixth day that he was there. Those assigned to trash duty all camp inside the fenced scrap yard at night rather than some going home daily, look outs on the dump hill, now that they know the surrounding area could be much more dangerous than initially thought. She tries in vain to get him to go home. 

"He's in a bad way," the older woman says, not bothering to define who she's talking about. 

"Some rest, some food, a few dead chickens. He'll be fine." 

The blonde doesn't even look up from where he is meticulously sorting the giant boxes of washers, cogs, bolts and similar objects into smaller containers. He's meant for a long time to separate them, even bring some coffee cans back of stuff he knows he'll need the most often. Besides, anything that isn't really usable - a fractured gear, a screw with the tip sheared off - can go in his pocket for his slingshot. 

"I don't mean his body, you fucking idiot," she says with a lot less bite than her words themselves would seem to supply. It's one of the few times he sees her look genuinely upset. Her expression is not without effect on him, his brows furrowing slightly as he frowns and looks back to his work. 

Greta sits down next to him, quietly helps him sort. She even pulls a retractable tape measure out when she realizes that he's separating some of the things by size. 

"I don't need help," he says curtly. 

The older woman sighs. "Everyone does sometimes. Even... whatever Buck is. Even you, stubborn as a goddamn mule though you are." 

Steve says nothing.

"He's sorry. That he asked you to stay home," she says almost casually, tossing a washer in a resealable plastic box that once held spinach.

"It's not about that," he snaps.

"You're telling me you've never kept anything to yourself, from your friends, from a lover? I sure as hell have and still do."

"Everyone knows you and Samir fuck sometimes and then you and Coulson fuck other days," he says, looking back to his boxes.

She laughs. "Oh honey, that's not much of a secret. If phones still worked, I'd have a little black book. Live by the porksword, die by the porksword."

Steve suppresses a chuckle by glowering even more intensely.

"So he wasn't completely honest with you," Greta continues. "Have you been completely honest with him? I mean, really? Told him every person you ever diddled, every mistake you made, every hole in the ground you dragged yourself out of after a good bender?" 

"Hole in the ground," Steve half-whispers. His head shoots up. "I know where they are. The others like Buck."


	41. It takes a village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang and their new acquaintance look after Buck in Steve's absence.

It takes all of them, even Nick, to rein Buck in when he tries to follow Steve out of the shanty. They can all see the immense effort it takes him to stand before he's gotten inches off the bed. First Luis wraps his arms and legs around him, but he just stands up with him attached, nearly bumping the younger man's head on a plant hook in the ceiling. 

"Winter, stop! You need to rest." 

The big man is wobbly, weaving a bit from side to side, making the smaller man nauseous quickly.

"Buck, please sit down," Win adds in Cantonese, grabbing his left arm. 

"Don't be a shithead," Greta chastises, clinging to his right. "The kid needs some alone time. And you need bed, young man."

Clint puts his muscly arms around the Soldier's waist. They all hang on him like dead weight, but may as well be a jacket for all it slows him. Buck just keeps going with them attached. 

"If you keep moving you might hurt us!" The archer knows exactly what to say, remembering the look of incredible guilt on the Soldier's face when he had shown up at Clint and Nat's house to apologize after the incident in the bar. "I mean, you were very scary earlier. Maybe you **wanna** hurt us." 

Buck freezes. "No! I do not wish to harm you. I...was not myself, before. I am sorry if I caused you distress." 

"I'll go find him and bring him back once he's cooled off, if you promise to lay back down." Nat gives him her best smile. 

"You are not a very honest person," he responds matter-of-factly, all of them still holding onto him. 

She snorts out a geeky laugh. "That makes two of us. Secret boyfriend. Secret gun box..." 

"It is **not** a secret Steve is my boyfriend," he says, cross. 

"You have a _boyfriend_?" Luis, still on the Soldier like a backpack, twists around to look at Buck and the bigger man turns his face so they make eye contact.

"Sorry, pal. He's moved on," Clint says with faux sympathy, looking up into the confused green eyes. 

The smaller man let's out a disbelieving chortle. "Wait, you guys thought....? Me and Winter....?" He starts to laugh so hard he's nearly crying. "He barely understood he had a dick, let alone tried to _bang me_ with it." 

"I do not entirely understand it, but I find your comment offensive." The Soldier's irises flare very slightly. 

"Aww don't be salty, buddy. Just...I mean...." Luis turns to look around at the others. "He used to walk around in the morning sometimes with half a chub, like it was nothing, and when I finally said something he just sort of....looked at it and then shoved it down. Like it was an inanimate object in his way." He laughs again. 

"I do not find you amusing." Buck's now glowing eyes narrow. "And genitals, to my understanding, are an inappropriate topic of public conversation."

"I mean, I'm _loving_ this conversation personally," Nat chimes in. 

"Madre de dios. Is that what blondey was so bent out of shape over?" Luis grins. 

"You're a hunk, bro," Clint shrugs. "And Steve's...mildly insecure." 

"Extremely insecure," Win corrects. 

"_My husband thinks you're hot,_" Nat loudly whispers, winking at the younger man on Buck's back.

"_Thaaaanks....?_" Luis responds, mildly confused.

"Okay, so if you two didn't bone...what was going on? You're way too touchy," Greta looks around the Soldier to Luis. 

"That's sort of...hard to explain. We lived together a while, in an old apartment building. He took care of me, I let him bite me. We were...chummy. Or as chummy as he could be then, since he barely said twenty words a day." His voice gets more firm. "We didn't get it on, and we were certainly never _boyfriends._ I don't care if guys are your thing..." he eyes Clint.

"_Oh, they could be his thing,_" Nat chimes in. 

"But they're not mine," Luis finishes. 

"Our relationship was not romantic or sexual in nature," Buck adds, unsure of how far beyond that he wants to go. He only wishes to clarify to their friends that his situation with Steve is unique. He also has no language to easily define his feed-bond with Luis, equally different from his relationships with anyone else, or The Cling.

"Why'd you two...separate?" Nat questions. 

Luis scowls at the Soldier. "He ditched me. I guess he got bored." 

Buck turns to look at him with big eyes, faded back to their normal light turquoise. "That is not the case. I..." He again goes silent. This is not a conversation he wishes to have in front of the others. They are not - nor ever have been - a couple, but he still feels the younger man deserves a private explanation. "I need to find Steve." He starts to move again, then stops. "Please release me. I do not wish to harm you." 

Nick takes out his communication device. "This is Fury. I need eyes on Steve Rogers. Don't engage, just observe and report. Over." 

"Copy, sir," a voice responds. A few minutes later a follow up comes through. "He's doing maintenance on the extruder. Over."

"See, nothing to worry about. Let him work off some steam, he'll come back," Nick assures. "God almighty, you're both so dramatic."

"It is your fault he is angry with me," Buck grits out to the bald man, eyes brightening again. 

"You did lie to him, pal," Clint says softly, gazing up at the Soldier, who frowns deeply.

"I did not lie. I was selective with what I revealed."

"You were _dishonest_. That is just as bad as lying sometimes," Win responds. "Especially to Steve." 

With a resigned huff, Buck sits back down on the bed, taking them all with him. They can feel him shaking lightly with the effort it took to stand and support them all - he's certainly still very strong, could throw any of them through the window if he wanted, but he's also exhausted. Luis slides down off him and rubs soothing circles on his back as the rest of them slowly ease away. 

"Come on, pal. I can see how worn out you still are. Just lay back down. Steve'll listen to one of us better than you right now, anyway," Clint soothes, putting his hand on Buck's shoulder. 

"Please go and speak with Steve, Natasha," Buck says after a long pause. "Please ask him to come back. Tell him I am sorry for...being _dishonest_." 

The redhead nods and leaves. Fury takes to his communicator. "Romanov will assume surveillance on Rogers. Over." 

"Copy," comes a voice over the device. 

Buck settles back with their urging, Luis sitting beside him on the bed with his knees up and back to the headboard, gently stroking his hair. 

"So, you have a boyfriend? That's a big step for you, buddy. You do...know what that means right? Boyfriend? You know it's not a...friend who is a boy?" 

Buck gives him an annoyed but embarrassed look. Luis knows him so well. 

"I am aware it is a male you have a romantic relationship with, usually with the addition of a sexual relationship." His soft voice still gives away an undertone of irritation.

"Okay, okay. I'm just making sure. It's nice! I wouldn't have thought...." The young man trails off, not wanting to say anything insulting. Winter - Buck - is a person after all. And people mostly, though not always, have the same needs no matter how weird they are. Companionship, love, even sex. He's known for a long time that the Soldier can think for himself and feel things, so it makes sense as he got more open to the latter he'd want to have someone special. Still, it's hard to picture when he thinks about the filthy, blank-faced statue Buck used to be. 

Nat comes over Fury's device about fifteen minutes later. "Hey, Nick. I just saw a skinny chicken hawk flying towards the yard."

"Well, since you all seem to have the fort held down here, I'm going to do some bird watching." The bald man stands. 

Buck turns to look at him, suspicious. 

"He's an amateur ornithologist," Clint offers, catching on to his wife's thinly veiled statement and knowing Buck doesn't _get_ veiled statements usually, thinly or otherwise.

"Truce?" Nick holds out his hand. After a brief moment, the Soldier carefully shakes it. 

Fortunately Buck falls into a heavy sleep soon after and doesn't wake until the wee hours of the next morning, Luis curled up in the bed a short distance away and Win asleep in his old sleeping bag on the floor. He's mildly hysterical when he stumbles to Nat's door, desperate to know where Steve is. She leads him calmly to Fury's office, where the bald man is already doing his morning review of the cams, and they show him the blonde on the drone feed working at the dump. 

Buck crosses his arms and glowers when Nick refuses him access to transportation to venture there himself. "I will walk then." 

"You most certainly will not. Fuck, you're as stubborn as the kid. The way you're moving, you'll keel over half way there." Nick crosses his arms in almost the same way, and it isn't lost on Nat how much alike they look in the moment despite their many physical differences. "Maybe I won't let you open that crate, but someone else sure as hell would use you to if they could find it. You're not helpful to this community, or Steve, in a cage somewhere." 

Buck's jaw works angrily, but the redhead can see his gears turning, knows he can't deny the logic of Fury's statement, especially now that Crossbones' people had been very close to aiding the Reavers in causing his demise. The Xs just as easily could have wanted him weak and captured as dead. As Luis had so gently pointed out, Reavers just don't give a fuck. They probably decided getting the super soldier out of the way before they raided Claptrap was a great idea. 

Eventually Buck lets her take him back to Steve's and, with Luis' help and her insistence, drinks from her. He falls back asleep right after and she babysits him while Luis cleans up and uses the outhouse. She had found the kid's devotion touching, but a bit odd, until the tingly feeling Buck caused had gone from mild to full body. It felt like she'd smoked some really good pot and then gotten a back rub from 1990s Brad Pitt. She could sort of get the appeal of being tactile with him after. Luis explains it was different with the others when he was weaker and they were all probably more than a little freaked out, given the circumstances. That if you're relaxed enough, and Buck is with it enough, it can be even better. 

The Soldier goes to Fury's daily, multiple times. He insists on seeing what Steve is doing. Other than the small man's facial hair turning from scruff to a short beard, a whole lot of nothing changes over the next few days. The blonde eats his snacks alone on the hillside, looking into the waste, makes casual conversation with the trashers (but mostly avoids them). Nick tolerates only so much time per visit before shooing him out of his office, but even the amount he does allow surprises Coulson and Hill. His lack of any seeming plan to get control of Buck shocks them and Nat - he'd leave her out of it but she always knows his tells and the others'. Possibly seeing four people piled on him when he was almost running on empty, and him just holding them up like it was no big deal, tipped him off that his threat outside the house about tearing Nick and his team apart was not hollow. The redhead knew herself the violence she was capable of even ground down to nothing emotionally and physically and she wasn't a Winter Soldier. 

After the second day, Buck had refused to eat food or drink from anyone. If he was not at Fury's he was in bed and barely said two words even to those sitting with him. Clint, as always, is good at getting things out of him and cajoles him into talking a bit.

"I have pain, in my chest. My breathing has normalized, but perhaps I am still damaged." Buck rubs absently at his sternum. 

"Okay, well the doctor should check you out," Clint offers.

The bigger man's head whips up to look at him. "No doctor." 

"Come oooooonnnnnn. Banner's nice. In a....dopey, hyper puppy kind of way." 

Buck's eyes glow nearly white and he shows his teeth. "NO DOCTOR!"


	42. Take two and call me in the morning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck tries to find comfort without Steve.

Buck sits pouting on the exam table, arms crossed, but Bruce doesn't take it personally. He's talked to the big man enough times to gather that he has an almost pathological distrust of medical professionals. Doctor Banner takes his white coat off and stuffs it in a drawer, just to put him more at ease, as the Soldier always eyes it like it will bite him. Ironic. On impulse he hands the taller man one of the lollipops he usually keeps for children (and Greta) - this one's watermelon, his personal favorite. He had noticed whenever he bumped into Steve and Buck at the mess hall or breakfast, the Soldier seemed to really like fruit.

"It's candy," he states simply when Buck stares at the object in his hand like it's poisonous. "You have to take the paper off first." The damn things basically never go stale, and someone is always bringing him a bag back from a run. He begrudgingly admits he eats way too many of them and there's no dentist in Claptrap. 

Clint roles his eyes, takes the lolly from the taller man, unwraps it, hands it back. Buck still just eyes it with suspicion.

"It's a treat. It tastes like fruit," Banner insists. 

Buck sniffs it, makes an odd face. He opens his mouth wide, like he's going to crunch a whole side of it off.

"Wait! You'll break a tooth!" Banner exclaims, stopping him. "You suck on it. You don't bite it. "

"_That's what he said_," Clint can't resist whispering under his breath.

"Who said that? And about what?" Buck asks quizzically. 

The archer scowls at being caught, takes the lollipop from the taller man, demonstrates by putting it in his own mouth and rolling it lightly back and forth with his lips closed around the stick. "Like that," he says as he hands it back over. 

The Soldier puts it cautiously to his tongue, then closes his mouth, emulating the archer. 

"Trust me, doc, he's not breakin' those teeth," Clint offers, listening to the hard, red sugar ball clank off the Soldier's canines. 

Banner watches the taller man, who seems rather pleased with the flavor. "It's good?" 

"Yes."

"Waddawe say?" Clint baby-voices.

" 'ank ooo," the Soldier says around his lolly.

Bruce gives him a little smile. "You're very welcome."

"We're working on his manners." The archer grins at the doctor. 

"My ejaculate tastes vaguely like this," Buck says all of two seconds later, looking thoughtfully at them.

The shorter men just stare at him for a long time, jaws dropped and eyebrows raised, as he swirls the candy around in his mouth, gazing innocently back at them. 

After a minute the Soldier, registering their shocked expressions, asks, "Is ejaculate an inappropriate topic of public conversation?" 

Bruce and Clint nod in unison. Buck pulls the lollipop from his mouth with a wet pop.

"Apologies. I should have realized. It comes from genitals and is related to sexual intercourse and masturbation, which are all, I am told, inappropriate subjects of public conversation." He puts the candy back between his lips.

The doctor looks from the Soldier to the archer, then back again. He repeats this movement several times while lifting his hand in a strange, half-gesture in Buck's general direction, his mouth opening and closing. Finally, Banner shakes his head. 

"Okay, anyway. Clint said that you were having some pain. Can you tell me about that?" Bruce asks. 

The Soldier presses all five finger tips of his flesh hand, spread out, against the center of his chest. "It mostly hurts here, but inside." 

"We were in a fight, with reavers," the archer explains, "and he inhaled a lot of smoke." Clint decides it's best to not say that Buck had been _fucking on fire_. Maybe the doctor is clueless about the whole super human healing thing. "Maybe his lungs...?" 

"I thought... That you just..." Bruce looks from Buck to Clint and back again, unsure of how much the archer knows about the whole super human healing thing. 

"I believe that my lung tissue is fully healed. This pain feels different than when my airways were scorched. It is inside my whole chest, but strongest in the center." Buck lays his hand flat, as if willing the feeling to stop. 

"Okay, let me take a listen." Bruce picks up his stethoscope. Buck stiffens. "Have you seen one of these before?" 

"Perhaps a similar apparatus." The Soldier eyes it with distrust. It reminds him vaguely of the electrodes the men in the facility would stick to him, except metal. He knows that material to be an excellent conductor of electricity. "Will it shock me very hard?" 

Clint makes a sympathetic face. 

"Not at all. This is just to help me listen to your heart and your lungs. It won't hurt. It might be a little cold though." Banner presses it lightly to Buck's flesh arm just so he can feel it and the big man leans back quick like he's been burnt. "See? No big deal," Bruce soothes as the Soldier slowly relaxes. 

Buck reaches out suddenly as the doctor lifts it, taps the center of the concave little disc with one of his metal fingers. Bruce lets out a small yell and yanks the eartips out by the stem with one hand. The taller man's eyes are a little wide and he looks sheepish, realizing he's done something wrong. 

"This is the chest-piece, also called the head, of the stethoscope. It lets me hear soft sounds really loudly, so if you hit it, it hurts my ears." To Banner's credit he doesn't sound mad at all, quite the opposite. 

"Apologies," Buck nearly whispers, lollipop - glistening with his slightly thicker than average saliva - held in one hand. 

"Is it okay if I put this under your shirt?" Bruce questions. 

The Soldier considers for a long moment, then nods. After the usual series of _take a deep breath, hold it in, let it out _ all around his chest, he moves to Buck's back and does the same. Banner takes the eartips out, raps the tube of the stethoscope around the back of his neck to let it hang down on either side. He gently feels for the glands in Buck's neck and under his arms, earning him an annoyed look.

"You're not ticklish are you?" the doctor asks playfully.

The Soldier raises his brows in the middle, frowns slightly. "Steve is ticklish."

The doctor takes out an old fashioned glass thermometer and tells Buck to open his mouth. 

"It just tells him your body temperature," Clint assures when the bigger man doesn't comply. 

The archer takes it, puts it quickly in his own mouth and let's go, holding it between his lips briefly in a similar way as the lollipop stick. When he takes it back out, the Soldier reluctantly lets Clint put it between his lips. 

"Sharing saliva isn't sanitary," the doctor comments.

"It's fine. I'm sure he can't catch a cold or anything." 

"We have already touched our tongues together, several times," Buck adds.

Bruce looks between them and the archer shrugs. Banner sighs in that _I'm not even going to ask_ way Steve does to Clint so often. He reaches down and gently grips the taller man's flesh arm - he goes rigid, glaring up at the doctor with slightly glowing eyes.

"He's just checking your heartbeat," Barton offers. 

The Soldier's brows furrow, but he lets the doctor turn his arm and press two fingers over the pulse point in his wrist. Bruce looks at his watch, an odd expression forming on his always slightly nervous features. 

"Have you been feeling unusual in any other way?" Banner asks.

Buck shakes his head. 

"Oh bullshit," the archer cuts in. "All he wants to do is sleep most of the day. He seems out of it when he's awake. Barely talks. Won't eat. He won't even...drink." _Shit, big mouth. Hopefully he thinks you mean water._

"I noticed he looked a little more... gray than usual," the doctor muses. "So, Buck. Where's Steve today?" The doctor takes the thermometer, looks at it, makes another strange face. "I hear you two are an item now." The tickling comment, or more precisely its tone, hadn't went over his head. 

"He's on trash this week," Clint answers quickly for his friend.

"That is not being honest," the Soldier looks over at him before popping the lolly back in his mouth. "Id is na a wie, buh id is naw da dwuth," he says around the candy. 

The archer shrugs. "I mean, he **is** doing trasher work...even if he _assigned himself._" 

The Soldier pushes the lolly into his cheek. "I was dishonest with him. He is angry with me. He ran away from me." Buck addresses Bruce, then looks at his lap. "Perhaps... he does not wish to be my boyfriend any longer." 

Bruce makes a sad face, sits down and wheels his chair up to the bigger man. "This pain in your chest, Buck, what does it feel like? Does it spread anywhere else?"

"I have tightness through my ribs, my heart rate is slightly elevated, I have a feeling inside as if I am...melting. But cold. My stomach also often feels tense." 

"Okay," Bruce pats the Soldier lightly on the knee. "Do you know what _heartache_ is?" 

"I am familiar with the term heart attack. Is it similar? Am I experiencing that ailment?" 

The doctor sighs, unsure how to proceed. 

"Honestly, I can't tell you anything about how your heart _muscle_ is functioning. Your pulse is incredibly slow and very different to any I've heard before, but I'm going to take a guess that that's normal for you." 

Buck nods.

"Your temperature is also about 10 degrees below average for a human. I'm gonna also assume that's normal if you haven't had blood lately. I've shook your hand before and you felt closer to a typical temp then." 

"Depending on how recently I have fed, yes," the Soldier responds. 

"Oh, so basically everybody knew except me, huh?" Clint demands.

"On the plus side, your lungs sound completely clear." 

"So basically you know nothing?" Clint asks.

"Buck, physically I can't find anything wrong with you. I think maybe you're still just recovering from the fight. Maybe it took a lot out of you to heal." 

The big man just nods.

"Can you do me a favor?" the doctor continues. "Three buildings down, the lady that lives there has some supplies for me. Can you pick them up and come back?" 

The Soldier nods. He knows about trade after living in Claptrap for so long. The doctor had given him services and candy. He needed to do something in return. Once he's out the door, Bruce opens his mouth to speak. Clint holds up his hand, shushing him.

"Wait."

After a moment, the doctor opens his mouth to speak again. The archer presses his fingers to Banner's lips. 

"Waaaaaaait."

Bruce pulls back, runs his hand through his wiry curls in annoyance, mussing them even more than they already were. "What are we waiting for?"

"Him to get out of hearing range," Clint whispers. After another long pause, the archer locks Banner with a serious stare. "Okay give it to me straight, doc. What couldn't you say in front of him?" 

"I'm not the kind of doctor that he needs to see. What's wrong with him isn't physical, it's psychological." 

"Did you just call my friend crazy?" the archer snaps. 

"Admittedly his vitals are confusing, and I'm sure his blood work would be even more so. But essentially he seems to function the same way as any other person. His symptoms are all consistent with depression. He's experiencing a physiological manifestation of his emotional distress." 

Clint scrunches his face towards its center, pursing out his lips dramatically. It's the classic _I don't understand this bullshit_ face.

"Look," Bruce takes his glasses off, pinches the bridge of his nose, "if him and Steve are having problems, that might not be the easiest thing for him to deal with. He doesn't seem very well-equipped emotionally. He needs to talk about how he feels with someone." 

"He could've talked to me," the archer sulks. 

"Preferably not somebody who's best friends with his significant other. He sees Gurminder sometimes, right?" 

Clint heads to the psychiatrist's to fill him in, leaving Banner with instructions to send Buck to meet him when he returns from his errand. The archer makes up a lame excuse for somewhere he needs to be and tells the Soldier he and the shrink can hang out for a bit. It never takes the doctor long to get the bigger man talking. It helps - he stops spending the day in bed, starts eating food, and taking turns tagging along with different members of their little group between his visits to Fury. 

He's still incredibly mopey. They try to distract him teaching him different things. No matter how much Win cajoles him, he won't go near the welding torch when it's lit. She does get him to help with some simple maintenance of machinery and they're both surprised how much he remembers from watching Steve work. Clint fares well showing him archery. Buck picks it up a little too quickly for the archer's liking and he's hitting the bull's eye nearly every shot within twenty minutes. 

The Soldier even goes back to the medical center with Luis to check on Muriel and her granddaughter, Alicia. 

"Uh. Lee. See. Uhh," he repeats when she teaches him how to say it properly. She's utterly fascinated with her savior, not at all afraid of him. It makes him feel good for the first time in days. 

Now that he's near full strength, he lets the doctor take some of his blood to inject in the worst of the burns on her legs. The little girl is terrified of the needle, but Buck assures her she will feel much better after. He lets her play with his metal arm to distract her while Bruce gives her the shots. 

After the doctor explains Muriel's condition to him, Buck - without a word - draws as much of his blood as he knows is safe to give a human while Banner is distracted talking to Luis. He injects it carefully into an artery in her neck that feeds her brain. 

"Woah, woah, woah, big guy. ¿Qué estás haciendo?" the younger man demands. 

"La estoy ayudando," the Soldier insists. 

"So, if my Italian can be trusted to take a guess at his Spanish, he said he's.... helping her?" Banner addresses the younger man.

"Yeah." He turns to eye Buck. "Estás seguro de que es seguro, Invierno?" 

"Yes. I am certain it is safe." 

"Luis? Luis, I feel...I feel different," Muriel says. 

"She didn't know me, when we got here. She hasn't really in a while," the green eyed man offers. "Hey, hey old lady," he addresses her, grinning and tearing up a bit. 

"You little shit." She smiles, bumps his chin lightly with her fist. Her face falls. "Where are we? Where's Alicia?" She turns to eye Buck, realization slowly dawning over her. "You're the one. With the mask. That gave me the kid." She nods towards their young friend. "Thanks."

"Let's go see Alicia, abuelita." Luis guides her off the exam table. 

As Buck watches them leave the room, he says to Banner, "I do not know the extent of the effect or how long it will last, but I am happy to give her more once it is safe to do so." 

He likes helping people, likes healing them, especially from injuries he is not responsible for. If only it were so simple with Steve. A few drops of blood and their relationship is fixed. A few more and the little mechanic never thinks about the deserving who hurt him, about _Brock_, ever again. But the Soldier is filled with the healing liquid and it has not dissolved his own emotional pain, his own memories.


	43. Alright, come close.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck explores his feelings and more.

Buck urges Luis to stay with Muriel in the medical building and keep Alicia company for the night. Steve had been gone five days - while it weighs on him, he has decided to have faith the little mechanic **will** come back. He needs time to think about what he will say to the blonde to fix things between them. Besides, the little girl still has minor smoke inhalation (much more difficult and painful to treat with a blood filled syringe than her burns) and the old woman needs to be monitored, just in case. They have no idea how much her condition has been reversed without observation or how long it will stay that way. The doctor states they can both be released the following day if their conditions remain stable. 

The Soldier realizes what a good decision it was once he is in Steve's bed alone. There is really only one person he wants there with him that night and he cannot help but imagine the little mechanic next to him. It is a soft, warm thought at first, but it slowly shifts to something hot and wanting. Buck's usually very active libido had been silent lately, but it perks back up. He lays on the bed naked, positioned like the first time he had touched himself, but he cannot get comfortable. The ceiling collage is dizzying rather than dreamy, something about his hand on himself not quite right. He had also found some time ago he could no longer keep his mind blank when he does this - all his experiences with Steve come back to him. When Buck had asked the blonde a few weeks ago if that was alright he had told him, pink cheeked, it was acceptable; they were boyfriends. Buck turns his body to put his feet on the floor and his bottom a bit off the bed, conjuring up his last sexual encounter with the smaller man. 

He strokes himself loose and slow with his saliva-coated flesh fingers, remembering the blonde's hand moving in his sweatpants, the warm lips on his body. After a bit he tentatively slides farther down, stretching his long arm, trying to touch himself in the way Steve had next. First he strokes lightly up and down over his entrance and then in slow circles, remembering exactly what the pads of the little mechanic's fingers had felt like dragging over him, slick but his callouses a bit rough even through the oil. Buck cannot form those - he has no need for a protective layer on his skin when his body heals so quickly - so his own fingertips are relatively smooth other than the minute ridges of his prints. He wipes some of the spit off them on his leg, allowing him to feel a bit more friction when he returns to rubbing the puckered skin. 

There is a brief moment where he pauses, considers if enjoying conjuring Steve up is acceptable now when the blonde is angry with him, may not want him anymore. No, he will not agree to that; he will not believe that what is between them cannot return to how it was before. The little mechanic had been very enthusiastically sexual with Buck many times, even if they all - save one - involved them only "getting themselves off" (he learned that phrase from Clint, of course) as they kissed and eagerly groped each other. Even in his fantasies he never strokes or enters Steve - he does not have his real-world consent to do so, has not yet asked, even though he aches to pleasure him. He reasoned now it was not a violation to imagine things the blonde had done with - or in this case _to_ \- him already. Or, it occurs seconds later, things he was quite certain the smaller man _wanted_ to do to him.

At that thought, he eases his pointer cautiously into himself, then lets out a needy whimper. Buck has never fingered his hole in this position and it is a bit awkward at first, though still stimulating. He tries to copy the way the blonde's digits moved in him. Going slow at first he figures out how he needs to angle his hand and curve his lower back to mimic it. When he starts to get more slick there - his skin feeling deliciously hot everywhere as his breath picks up and he eases in and out of himself easily - he adds a second finger. He recalls how amazing Steve's had felt inside him, stretching him, rubbing him lightly in just the right spot. 

He had never entered and stroked himself at once, as the blonde had done for him, but now he craves it. Licking his metal hand generously, he gently wraps it around his length and starts to slowly pump himself. He had avoided doing it with this arm previously for some reason - primal fear of the dangerous object on his most sensitive parts, perhaps? Of course that had never stopped him from _fucking himself_ (as the smaller man had put it) with it, but tonight he had wanted to use his other hand, the one that would feel more like Steve, for penetration. Ultimately, the ribbing of the fingers feels nearly as good on him as it had inside him and he has enough sensation and dexterity with them to be careful. The brunette starts to pant, to gasp out hungry, breathy sounds as he works himself both ways.

Buck experiments using his legs to move his body forward and back, eventually rolling his hips up each time he does the latter. He forms a little arc with his movement, first forcing his fingers farther into him, then sliding mostly off them to curve up and thrust into his slick fist. The motion of his body reminds him of the way the smaller man had fluidly rocked them together. When he gets the speed and rhythm just right _it is so good_. He moans outright, curling the fingers inside him as Steve had, twisting his hand as he strokes his shaft, thinking of the blonde's smooth length against his.

The memory of offering himself up to be _fucked_ by the little mechanic floods him again and he squeezes his hole slightly tighter. He cannot help but think about how the smaller man had looked at him after, like Steve's arousal would consume him. Suddenly the blonde had needed to chase his own pleasure as he satisfied Buck, where seconds before he had seemed contentedly focused only on the bigger man's needs. He could see Steve had **wanted** to be inside him, badly. At the thought, a guttural sound comes from him he cannot even identify.

The Soldier lets himself imagine the blonde taking his glistening length - mostly pink and red when it was fully erect, unlike his own - in hand and guiding the domed, thick head against Buck's opening. The little mechanic would carefully ease into him, spread him slowly open. Buck is so wet there now - he easily slides a third finger to join the others, fucks himself slow and deep, imagining the blonde filling him again and again. He finishes minutes later, harder than any other time save when Steve had touched him, his noises so loud they deafen him a bit echoing off the metal walls. 

_AHHN! AHHHN! AHHHHHHHN!_

As he slowly comes back to himself he remembers looking up at Steve, the blonde's eyes closed and his body trembling lightly after the force of his own orgasm. Touching him softly caused the long lashes to flutter up, the beautiful sea-blue irises to fix him with an indescribably soft look. He remembers the warmth in his own chest getting so strong then, frighteningly so, and thinks back to Gurminder's book about emotions. 

_Love. That feeling is love._

The Soldier lays awake a long time after he cleans himself off. Perhaps he was wrong and "you were right" was not the most important thing to say to the blonde. Perhaps the words he has heard other couples use to one another - I love you - hold more meaning than a casual declaration of affection. Perhaps if he had said them to Steve, the little mechanic would not have abandoned him. Perhaps if he said them still he would be forgiven, the blonde would understand how much he needed him. 

The next day, he does rounds with Win. That afternoon, Luis and the Soldier help Muriel and her granddaughter get settled with the woman who cares for the little mute girl. She had still not spoken since the Soldier brought her in from the scrubland, back when he lived outside the wall, despite the doctor's claims he could find no physical cause. That had been Nick's idea, having the two girls under one roof, and Buck wants to believe it's a caring gesture and not a ploy of some kind. The children do take to each other quickly, holding hands and following the Soldier everywhere for the afternoon. 

After dinner in the mess hall with his friends and the reavertown survivors, he asks Luis to come over - he wants to talk about why he had left him behind, though he does not say so. Placing a younger man in housing was a bit more difficult than the girl and old woman and Luis didn't want to sleep on the floor in temp again if he could help it, even with the bedroll Winter let him borrow. He asks if he can sleep over after they "hang out." A bit more together mentally than when the young man had shared the bed before, the Soldier recalls the others claiming Steve felt romantic or sexual jealousy towards Buck's...friend (?). Perhaps allowing him to "sleep over" was inappropriate. It would be nice to feel someone there, to not wake up alone, and he had changed the sheets after his previous evening's exploits. He had made quite the mess. He agrees to Luis' request. 

It feels very natural to sit with him at the table in companionable silence, though they are playing cards now which they had never done at the apartment building. He studies Luis casually as the younger man focuses on his hand. The big green eyes - fringed with thick black lashes - are the same, hair similar too now that he had cut it. He is still smooth-faced though he looks less boyish than before and he has easily put on twenty pounds, mostly muscle. 

Had he been attracted to Luis, all those years ago? He can certainly see the appeal of his physical appearance and, when he considers it, he had always liked looking at him. Certainly he had no inkling of what that meant before, perhaps did not even consciously realize it was happening. What if he had started to understand, all those years ago? What if that had been part of what frightened him rather than just The Cling getting so strong? 

Luis, like so many times, catches him staring. He gives him a sly grin. "Using your x-ray vision to see through my cards?" 

"That is not a skill I possess." He turns back to his own, feeling his face flush, something uncommon outside of sexual activity. He is not easily embarrassed. 

"Are you... _blushing_?" Luis reaches over, lightly ghosts his fingertips across Buck's too-warm cheekbone. 

He had went back to feeding from the animals and Greta had brought a nervous Coulson over to drink from. In addition now that so many from the town had seen him in action on the battlefield, biting and feeding, word traveled about what he needed. Some looked frightened of him, far more so than ever before, but many whispered about him like he was their champion. Of those, several had offered to let him; he had made it good - but not too good - for all of them. Sucking from the small cut, rather than biting, made it easier to not push his pulse in too deep. It was also less frightening, he felt, than his teeth. 

"Apologies" the Soldier whispers. 

"For what?" The younger man leans forward, eases his fingers to cup Buck's face lightly. 

They had touched more and more during their time together. The Cling effected Luis as well, and he would regularly ask Buck to move more near to him, or just gesture for him to do so after the feeding. Usually sitting on the floor near the bed to let the younger man stroke his hair was as close as he would allow himself, even though he wanted to be closer. Sometimes he would convince Buck to sit on the edge of the mattress and then wrap his arms around the Soldier's waist, pressing his face into his side as he fell asleep, the bigger man lightly rubbing his back or stroking his arm. The urge to be close had lingered, low, all the time after a while if he was honest. They became very "touchy" the last few months and he sees how that mirrors his experience with Steve - perhaps it had confused him. 

"Everything," the Soldier finally answers quietly. 

Luis gives him a wry smile, leans back in his chair. He puts the cards down and crosses his arms. "Winter, I don't think you need to say sorry for _quite everything_. But you did abandon me. I'd at least like an explanation." 

Buck looks at his own cards, wants to put them over his face - hide himself - but he does not. He has very recent experience with being left behind. Slowly he lays them down. After a pause he makes himself look at Luis. 

"I needed to pursue a military asset and ensure it did not fall into the wrong hands. Taking you with me into the wasteland did not seem like a feasible option." 

It is not a lie but it is also not the whole truth. _Dishonest_, he hears Win say. 

"You just dumped me like a bag of garbage. You told Muriel I was your... associate. Not even your _friend_, after everything between us." Luis scowls, trying to look mad, but his eyes reveal hurt. 

What had been between them? Had some part of him wanted Luis, as he wanted Steve? Did some part of him want the younger man even now?

"I only thought of your safety and to see your needs provided for." 

_Dishonest._

"You left me with strangers!" Luis counters. 

"I surveyed the settlement many times. I knew they were undeserving. The deserving would not keep a useless old woman." Buck realizes immediately his word choice was poor as the anger finally touches the green eyes.

"Don't call Muriel useless!! She was there for me when you weren't! She kept me fed! She gave me a place to sleep! She made me part of her family!!! You ran away! That must be why you and _Steve_ are a thing! _A couple of fucking cowards who can't deal with their feelings_." Luis bangs a hand on the formica tabletop, vibrating the metal supports underneath. A clanging echo, for a long moment, fills the utter silence between them.

"I do not understand your meaning," Buck finally says. 

_Dishonest. Just as bad._.

"We had something with each other, something important. It wasn't romance or fucking, but it was...a connection. It was so hard for me when you broke that. Especially without a word, a good-bye, anything." Luis looks into his lap. 

"It was difficult for me as well. Leaving you," the Soldier says softly. "I have thought of you often." 

"Was it because you got scared? I got too close to you?" 

"Yes," Buck states simply. 

"But... it was fine for so long. The feeding, the touching." Luis does not sound angry. If anything he sounds desperate, sad. 

"It....changed" the Soldier manages.

"Changed? How? Did you fall for me? Did you start to...want me?" To Buck's surprise, the younger man does not sound disgusted or offended, though his tone is hard to decipher. 

Had he? Did he? Perhaps his feelings for Steve were based on touching. Perhaps he believed he loved the little mechanic because - after the bond of their friendship - they had kissed and more, much more. He needs to know the truth, if what he feels for the blonde is real - unique - or a side effect of shared comfort and physical intimacy. After a long silence he stands, crosses to Luis' side of the table, kneels down next to him. After his friend turns to look at him, Buck slowly leans up, ghosts his lips over the smaller man's. Despite Luis' previous statements to the others, when Buck starts to withdraw he follows, pressing their mouths together more firmly.


	44. Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve returns to face the Claptrappers.

Steve makes a mental to do list as he prepares to head back to the junktown. 

1) Ambush boyfriend at home. Try to be a grown up and smooth things over. Talk about (gag) feelings. Control temper. 

2) Change clothes, wash up, shave. 

He's been in the same outfit an entire week and his beard is so fucking hot. 

3) Go to pub. Suck up to friends for ditching them with a sickly, probably super mopey vampire to take care of. Buy them many alcoholic beverages. Eat all the delicious greasy breakfast foods and, oh my god, berries. 

He hadn't had fuckall while he was gone but chips and cream of celery soup. They'd found a whole case of dented cans, still shrink-wrapped together, in the dump that hadn't even reached their expiration date yet. Literally every other non-perishable thing they had stored there contained meat.

4) Ask Win if anything needs urgent maintenance. Do said maintenance. Pray Clint has not destroyed extruder. Control temper if he has. 

5) Get Buck alone. Do bad things to him... Maybe even _with_ him. And by bad he means good. Really good. 

He'd had a dream last night about making the big man's toes curl. About Buck's lips on his neck. Steve wanted to stay angry, told himself he was only going back because of what he had figured out, but he knew he was lying to himself again. 

He missed Buck. Missed talking to him and making him smile. 

Missed cuddling with him and kissing him.

Missed watching him cum all over himself.

_Ahem. Focus, Rogers._

6) Figure out what the fuck to do about realizing he has known where the other Winter Soldiers were all along. 

_Not so fucking clever after all, am I, Buck?_ he'll say. 

All these plans are put on hold minutes after he enters Claptrap when he runs into his neighbor, Jasper, heading somewhere. Probably to lick Fury's boots. Yet another person who had followed Nick here, he'd been a pencil pusher for the same special operations group. 

"Hey, Steven," the man with the shaved head and deceptively sweet face calls to him, pushing up his wire framed glasses with one finger. "I'm really sorry that you and Buck broke up. I hope you moved pretty far from him. His new guy's _really_ vocal." 

"Sitwell, what the fuck are you talking about?" 

Steve has zero patience for the man. The saddest shit? He is pretty cute in a math club president kind of way. The first time they'd been introduced (and Jasper had covertly looked him over), the blonde had a ten second fantasy about making friends and maybe, like five years down the road after he was super comfortable, asking him out. Then Jasper had spoke and - he thought to himself - that mini-crush had blown up even faster than his only recent love interest. Jack would have found that crack funny. 

Lately Sitwell had a lot of comments about the noises that the mechanic and the Soldier made at night. It was one thing for their friend group to pick on him. To have this person who he has no social relationship with, beyond begrudgingly returning a hello, mention it repeatedly was really weird and irritating. 

"We get it," Steve had said after the umpteenth time, "we all live on top of each other and we can hear everything each other does. _You don't need to bring it up to me. Especially in such a creepy way._" 

Jasper had shrugged, mumbled something about not being able to stream porn anymore. Steve reminded him he claimed (in a borderline queerphobic way, he'd wanted to add) he was straight after finding out Steve wasn't. Sitwell curtly claimed he pretended the noises were from women. The mechanic retorted that must be difficult since they both had pretty deep voices. Sitwell, ex government snake that he was, quickly feigned offense and told him not to be sexist, plenty of women had deep voices too. Sadly Steve has to concede - if only to himself. He _was_ stereotyping, and that went against his beliefs, but Jasper is as much of a feminist as the blonde is a bodybuilder. 

Back in the present, Sitwell makes the pinched, arrogant smile that always begs the mechanic to punch him in the face. 

"You know! That new guy that he's with. A little lighter complected than me, amazing green eyes. I saw them leave your place - Buck's place I guess now since I haven't see you around - like ten minutes ago. The guy was all kinds of loud last night, and your ex was the night before too. Works out for me though. New guy's voice is definitely not as deep as yours."

Without a word, Steve turns on his heel and heads towards the pub. He'd meant originally to get back early enough for his boyfriend to be at the shanty but he'd had trouble with the snow(sand)mobile. Breakfast was most likely where the Soldier was headed when le douchebag had seen him and Luis. 

When the mechanic enters Vic's place, Luis is in line with the others. If Jasper knows, everyone knows. His friends know. Yet they're so..._chummy_ with the guy, all laughing together, Win grabbing his arm and almost doubling over, Clint turning to poke him lightly in the ribs, big grin on his stupid traitor face. He watches the young man head alone to the spot where Steve had always sat. Buck is in line still, holding up the others - there are two little girls hanging on his every word as he helps the old woman from the reavertown fill their plates. 

Steve's to do list is on fire. The ashes that remain of it have only one new task to reveal.

He strolls over to Luis. "Heyyyy," he says amiably enough 

"_Steve?_ Hey man. Uh, you...just get back?" Luis looks instantly nervous. 

"Yeah, yeah," the blonde smiles. "Can I just," he jerks his head towards the empty side of the room, "talk to you a minute?" 

"Ummm...okay. Sure," the young man answers. 

The mechanic can't help but notice him glance over to Buck and the others, but none of them are looking in his direction. Once they're both standing near the bank of ancient, broken payphones on the side wall - Steve's face still the picture of friendliness - Luis nervously asks, "What's up, dude?"

"I just... wanted to clarify something." 

"Okay...." The green eyes get a bit bigger. 

"You know Buck and I are a couple, right? Current tense. As in dating. As in being exclusive." 

"Yeah, yeah he told me." Luis shuffles from foot to foot.

"Oh, okay. Say, were you possibly at my house last night? My neighbor swore he heard you." The mechanic gives him his dopiest grin.

"Yeah, about th-" 

Luis doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence, Steve cutting him off when he slams his fist into the other man's jaw. 

The blonde smiles at him crazily as he's picking himself off the floor. "You two have a nice life. Really. Wonderful. Keep my house. Keep all my shit. Enjoy it. You can have my friends. You can have my spot at the table. You can have it all." 

"You're a fucking lunatic, you know that?" The young man stands, clutching his face. "He deserves better than you."

"Steve?" he hears Clint's voice from behind him. He turns to see the whole gang by their usual table, Buck and the children trailing behind. They're staring at him with their mouths open. He unceremoniously holds both middle fingers up high at them, then whips around and storms out. 

He builds a new to do list as his worn out boots crunch rapidly on the gravel.

1) Get essentials from house.

2) Set house on fire.

3) Hot wire most convenient truck.

4) Leave this place in the literal dust. 

_Sweet baby Jesus,_ he hears the Sarah Rogers-esque internal voice say. _You learned absolutely nothing from an entire week of self-reflection._

**Sure I did. Trust no one. Depend on yourself. Don't get attached,** the bullheaded one answers. 

_Running angry is just a mask for running scared. You don't want to see them end up like Jack. Pushing them away won't make you stop loving them, stop _being in love_ with him._

Someone calling his name pulls him from his thoughts. It's the Soldier. He's asking - no pleading - for Steve to stop. 

"What did I tell you about following me like a dog?" the blonde yells, not slowing or turning to look. 

It only takes the super human seconds to catch up to him, to be in front of him on his knees in the road so fast the motion blurs. Buck's arms are around his waist just as quick, the bigger man's face pressed to his abdomen before he can even react.

"Steve," he says muffled by the shirt. "Steve." 

**That's not the name he's been yelling lately,** the malicious voice says. The blonde shoves him roughly. He may as well have delicately dumped a bag of feathers on Buck for all the good it does.

When the Soldier leans his head back to look up at the mechanic his irises are a color that the smaller man has never seen before, a light periwinkle. "Do not leave again. I will be honest. I will not keep things from you. I will tell you whatever you want to know." 

**Liar.**

_You don't know that, ya broken record._

"I don't want to hear a goddamn thing you have to say. Let go of me!" 

He sees the flicker of uncertainty on Buck's face, like he knows he should comply but can't. "No," the bigger man says, tightening the circle of his arms. "You must listen to me first." He looks pitiful.

**It fakes it so well. Pretending to feel. Pretending to care. Do you think it wants you? Loves you?**

_Yeah, yeah, yeah. We've heard all this before. Oh come on, kid, look at how adorably earnest he is. Let him talk._

Steve furrows his brows, twists his mouth into something between a scowl and a frown. He says nothing. 

"I saw you for the first time in the barn, when you found the asset. I watched you from the alcove, studied your scars when you were standing in the hay. I felt...I do not know how to describe it. A connection to you. Understanding. Because I know what it is, to be tortured. And you are so small, fragile, yet you had endured. I respected that." He swallows hard, continues. "Then I realized how clever you were when you threw the screws into the darkness. I had not made a sound, nor was there any way you could see me there, yet you knew that I was. As if you sensed my presence. No human had ever done that before. I was... fascinated by you." 

The color of his eyes deepens to something like blooming hydrangeas. The Soldier takes a wavering breath, licks his lips. 

**Man they make it life-like.**

_Don't call him it. He doesn't like that._

"I thought about you many times," the Soldier continues. "I saw you occasionally from a great distance, on the wall or going to the yard. I wanted...I do not know. But after you saved me from the sand and I saw the way Win protected you and how you cared for her when she was hurt, I knew I wanted to protect you. I wanted you to care for me when I was hurt. My feelings for you have only grown every day since then." 

Steve's lip quivers. 

**You're not listening to this shite are you?**

_Shhhh. I'm making popcorn._

"I have learned and experienced so much since I came to live with you. I have become...a person. I have made friends. I have... created a life that is more than survival or accomplishing a mission." 

"But that's why you really came here," the blonde spits. "**Your mission.**" 

"The asset must be kept from the wrong hands. To keep the undeserving safe." 

"You're supposedly being so fucking honest now. Tell me what the other thing is inside the box," Steve challenges. 

"Experimental serums, similar to the one administered to the corpse I was before I woke as this, but intended to be used in living tissue. Zola's final creations before they removed him from, and his access to, the secondary facility. Those above him came to chastise him for creating the chemicals without permission. I was present for the discussion." 

Zola. Was he the creepy little man Brock had pulled from the base? No, not a base. A facility. But if that man had made Buck, circa 1983 as Nick had mentioned, how could he still be alive? 

"His commanders felt that the serums were too dangerous and that they lacked the resources to properly test them or contain whatever creations they would birth. I was ordered to place the case holding the serums in the crate and seal it. They stated they would take the entire crate to a secure facility and were locking down all locations with Winter Soldiers pending potential social collapse. Zola attempted to take command of me but they silenced him. Then they removed it - and him - from the facility before I was returned to cryosleep." 

Steve is dumbfounded. He had expected excuses or subterfuge, not detailed answers. 

"Oookay," he says, anger slipping from his voice. He reverts back to his snarky tone immediately. "But what did you do with Luis last night?" the blonde queries, upping the ante of their little truth game. 

**Show me your so-called honesty, big boy. Watch, he'll lie right to your face.**

"I invited him to our home. We played cards. I kissed him very briefly. He kissed me back a bit longer. After, we both decided that the confusion we feel regarding our bond has to do with the lack of the common culture's ability to explain the nature of our relationship." 

"And what is the nature of your relationship?" the mechanic all but hisses. 

"We share a connection that is very difficult to explain. I have fed on Luis very intensely many times, in a manner I have not with anyone else. It is very pleasurable and overwhelming for both of us and, after, we have a deep need to be close together. This has engendered a sense of comfort when we engage in physical interaction with one another and caused an amount of shared affection to develop." 

"Oh, I heard **all about** you two engaging physically and sharing affection!" Steve snaps. 

The blonde starts to lightly struggle, more for show than anything. He's not done listening - he needs an admission of guilt to heat his simmering anger to a boil and block out Buck's admission he had been crushing on him since minute one. 

"I do not understand your meaning." Buck is still on his knees, arms in the exact same position tight around Steve. Now that he's at full strength, he does not tire easily. 

"You've been **fucking each other** while I was gone. In my house, no less. The neighbors heard you." The mechanic tries to sound self-righteous but can't help the hurt that slips into his voice. 

Steve is not averse to non-traditional relationships. He'd flirted with the idea of being a throuple (the word made him chuckle every time) eventually with Carol and Sam more than once and did not at all judge them sharing sexual partners. Lord knows he had gotten plenty out of their mutual activities. Nor did he look down on others he knew being in open relationships or polyamorous or even just proudly promiscuous. If they were honest and not hurting anyone, more power to them. But the blonde and the brunette had talked about monogomy, what it was and if it was an expectation either of them had. The Soldier had insisted he wanted no one else and - while the book said jealousy was a negative, immature emotion -he did not want to share the mechanic either. Steve had foolishly believed him. 

Buck makes a truly puzzled expression. 

"What is between Luis and I is not sexual. That is what we determined after we kissed. Also that our relationship is not romantic in nature. Finding him attractive and being attracted to him are not the same, as loving him and being in love with him are not the same. Humans equate pleasure and intimacy with sex and romantic love. The experience of pleasure and intimacy Luis and I have together from the feed-bond and our time cohabitating does not fit into any human paradigm. Unless there are others like me who are awake and free, it is likely we are the only two people in the world who share such a relationship." 

"What was all the noise last night then?" the blonde demands. 

"Luis was moaning quite loudly when I fed on him. As I mentioned, it is quite pleasurable. That is what this..." Buck grasps for the word, "_nosey_ person heard." 

_Quite pleasurable. Tuck that little chestnut away for later. _

"And the night before that? When they heard you making sexy noises?" 

The Soldier's face flushes, lavender spreading across his cheekbones. 

**Caught you!**

"I was," Buck's voice goes low, almost to a whisper, and his eyes drop. "I was pleasuring myself, while I thought of you..." He swallows hard. "While I thought of you fucking me." 

Steve's eyes go a little wide at that and he barks out, "Take me home. Now." 


	45. Rapunzel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve leaves his ivory tower.

Buck, as he so often does, takes Steve's words very literally. He stands with his arms still around the blonde and carries him towards the shanty. The mechanic begrudgingly allows him to and admits to himself it's a pretty good view from up there, head well above Buck's own; lord knows he needs a change in perspective. He had nearly destroyed everything in his little fit of jealous rage, like a pop diva smashing up her man's truck because she sees him talking to another girl. Only now the police were here, asking how someone could be stupid enough to carve their name into the leather seats. Every time he thought he'd made real progress with his temper, with his urge to distrust and put up barriers, he relapsed hard into his old ways. Violence, manipulation, pushing away those who cared about him, lashing out verbally to wound. 

_It's like that song Grandma used to play. Two steps forward, two steps back._

The bullheaded voice was quietly sulking in a corner, not wanting to admit it had been wrong, shrivelling from the accusation that it was what encouraged Steve to start being overtly sexual with the Soldier in the first place. The day he'd decided to walk in on Buck masturbating had been a "oops, dropped all my fucks" situation - the voice loved those, reveling in rebelling against real or imagined slight or restraint. Which is how the same voice that told him one day he deserved to wank with abandon in front of the object of his affection **because screw what anyone else thought** had spent the last week trying to poison him against the bigger man.

The reasonable voice was offering praise for Steve choosing to listen (okay sort of choosing - Buck did have him in a bear hug after all, but he hadn't put his fingers in his ears and went _la la la la laaa_ like he'd initially wanted to). It offers soft encouragement, reminds him he hasn't broken anything yet his clever mind can't fix. Apologies to everyone - especially Luis - will be hard, like taking his medicine, but he'll feel better after. Shooting the double bird at his friends is far down the list of horrible things he's done, afterall. He's punched Clint nearly twenty times by now. 

Buck pulls him from his thoughts. "Do you forgive me?" he asks quietly. His face is incredibly sincere, sad, hopeful. 

"If you forgive me first." The blonde gazes down at him as the Soldier's eyes flick up to his. 

"You have no need of my forgiveness. I was dishonest and it drove you away. I am to blame." 

The bigger man frowns deeply and the mechanic gets a bit of a lump in his throat watching it. How had he ever thought this person, so blatantly dependent on Steve's approval, could conspire maliciously against him? His pride wants to let Buck think it's all his fault, but that would tarnish his sense of fairness. It would be _dishonest_, and while Steve is many things he is not a hypocrite (or tries very hard not to be).

"I acted like a brat, running off without even hearing you out. I ditched you when you needed me. I totally freaked out based on paranoia and gossip. My actions were just as bad as yours. Maybe worse." 

"If you feel you require absolution for your behavior, I grant you that," the Soldier responds softly. 

The mechanic gets a weird church flashback from that and a ten second fantasy of Buck dressed as a priest. Damn. Are they home yet?

"I forgive you, for not telling me about the crate or Crossbones. And I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions about Luis. And...that I may have broken his jaw." 

"You struck him _very hard._" Buck is trying to sound stern, perhaps even upset about the turn of events, but his tone is more than a bit self-satisfied. His eyes twinkle the littlest bit, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Oh my god. You _like_ that I was so jealous!" Steve smiles wide, chuckles. 

The Soldier's cheeks color again. "Jealousy is a negative and immature emotion that is not helpful in the maintenance of a relationship," he says, obviously trying to make his tone judgmental. 

That only makes the blonde laugh harder. "Sure. But you're loving that I slugged someone because I thought they stole you." 

The bigger man is silent, sheepish expression on his face. After a moment, he sets Steve carefully down at their door and looks deep into his eyes. "No one could ever take me from you." He leans in, kisses the blonde soft and slow.

The mechanic grins as Buck unlocks the door. Once inside, they both get visibly nervous as Steve starts taking off his dust-covered boots, jacket and pants. Asking (okay, ordering) Buck to take him home had been on impulse, but now they were here. Alone. With a bed. With the admission of what the brunette wanted bouncing around. He hadn't fucked the bigger man before when offered because he worried maybe Buck, lost in the moment and inexperienced, did not really understand what he was asking for. It was clear now he was very into the idea, and it definitely made Steve all kinds of hot and bothered thinking about it. 

There's still a voice, different from the many others he often hears, expressing apprehension. He knows logically there's nothing wrong with anal sex, that it's no more weird or shameful or less valid in a romantic sense than vaginal sex, that a lot of people find it very enjoyable. But to some part of his psyche, that act is awful, painful, humiliating. It's what sadists do to weaker people to feel powerful, dominant. Something that leaves you leaking in the worst possible way, sore, ashamed. The fact he would be the one doing it rather than the one having it done to him is little comfort. He does not want to feel like he's using the person he loves for his own enjoyment, debasing him.

And yes, he's sure of that now, that he loves Buck. 

The enormity of the betrayal he had felt earlier was testament to that, but so was how quickly the warm feelings flooded his chest again even when he clawed and battered at them in resistence. Firstly, it happened when the Soldier talked about his immediate interest in Steve right from their almost-meeting in the barn. Maybe that was his (flimsy) ego talking - _he wanted all this right away!_ Maybe he should even find it creepy on Buck's end, a bit stalkerish, but he didn't. It was flattering, to be noticed out of all the people who had been there, many of them more attractive than him. It touched him that seeing his scars had made the Soldier feel some kind of connection to him (even if he was a bit embarrassed that he'd seen them while he was taking a piss). 

The feeling flared stronger when the brunette had asked shyly for forgiveness. It's clear Buck desperately needs things to be good between them. So does he. He wants things to be _very good_ between them right now as he glances over at the (mercifully stain-free) sheets. He isn't ready to give the Soldier what he desires though. Not exactly. But he is a mechanic - sometimes if the regular tool for a job isn't handy, you have to improvise. 

Sometimes when they had done sexy things - and especially the last time - Buck seemed to like being told what to do. The blonde had spent a little time unpacking that previously, worrying it was a holdover from the bigger man's days of essentially being enslaved. It wasn't like the brunette didn't have a mind, a will, of his own which he had clearly exerted again and again outside of their carnal activities. He'd also took the lead in certain things, while they chased their pleasure together, and made requests. Even the night before the reavertown he had insisted on seeing Steve, despite the smaller man being firmly entrenched behind him quite comfortable stroking him off. The mechanic decides it's a manifestation of the Soldier's trust in him, comfort and excitement taken in being given direction he knows will lead to his pleasure, not a lingering urge to be subservient. 

The blonde, now in just his ratty t-shirt and boxer briefs (mercifully clean, since he kept a bag with a few essentials in one of the old employee lockers in the scrapyard's small office building) leans up on his tip toes to kiss Buck. The bigger man's arms are around him in a second, lifting him back up effortlessly like he's as heavy as a pillow. Their mouths work eagerly together, tongues joining in moments later. One of Steve's arms slides around the bigger man's neck and his other hand tangles in the thick, dark hair, pulling them tighter together. When Steve starts to feel the brunette's erection pressing through their clothes against his leg, he eases back. Maybe it's fucked up and wrong after everything that's happened - Gurminder would certainly say it was unhealthy - but they both need this right now. The mechanic fixes the bigger man with a hot, commanding look.

"Take your clothes off and lay on the bed," he instructs, firm but quiet. The Soldier looks surprised, then like he's just been promised a forty room mansion with its own chocolate fountain. He sets the smaller man down, strips without hesitation, neither of them breaking eye contact while he does. When he turns to go, Steve lightly grabs his arm.

"Don't touch yourself until I say you can," he breathes out, barely above a whisper. 

Buck's periwinkle irises flare slightly brighter as he nods, mouth hanging a bit open. The blonde glances down at Buck's cock - he was a bit more than half erect before and now he's all the way there. 

_Yep, definitely likes me telling him what to do,_ an internal voice chimes in that's just himself, or the self he likes to think of Steve Rogers as. 

That gets the mechanic pretty excited as well. He wants to pounce on the Soldier, slam their lips back together, pull the man's big hand to his hard-on and in the most loving, respectful way possible **order** Buck to jerk him off while he reciprocates. _Patience, patience_. Unlike the last time he'd said those words - though it had been aloud then - he's reminding only himself. He takes his remaining clothes off slowly, like he has all the time in the world. 

Steve grabs Buck's hairbrush off the small dresser they'd scavenged recently to keep their clothes in, brushes the sand residue from his beard and smooths it out, watching behind him in the little mirror attached to the drawer unit as Buck stares blatantly at his naked ass. The nausea inducing level of stress even thinking about being naked in front of Buck would have caused a few weeks ago isn't lost on him, but there's surprisingly not even a hint of that now.

The blonde had made fun of the brush in his mind from the minute the Soldier picked it out at the Super Store. The handle was about six inches long, a cone shape with a small rounded end that slowly went wider, then abruptly tapered back in to a short cylinder shape that fused it to the paddle. Other than it being hard, smooth plastic instead of rubber, it looked remarkably like a long, slender butt plug. He walks over to the table as he detangles his hair with it, then sets the brush down on the formica. 

The blonde makes up two small buckets of soapy water, like he often did for his "bath." Cleaning himself slowly, he gazes at Buck. The big man's flesh hand is resting on his thigh - occasionally it twitches as he watches Steve run the wet cloth over himself. The Soldier's cock does the same when the mechanic wraps the rag around his own, gives it a few careful strokes, then goes lower, washing all his sensitive areas. 

When's he's squeaky clean everywhere, and wiped down again with a wet, suds-free cloth, he leisurely dries off. He tosses the towel with his other dirty clothes in their hamper, noticing someone had done laundry while he was away. Steve realizes he's all grown up and domesticated when the thought of Buck washing their clothes gets him a bit more turned on. People helping with chores was very sexy in his book. He picks the brush and the wet rag back up on his way to the bed, sets both on the lowest shelf on his side of the headboard. 

"You were very patient," Steve says softly, kissing along Buck's clavicle, mouthing up the side of his neck and over his jaw. "I think you deserve a reward." He kisses the bigger man - deep and passionate - quickly easing his tongue into the other man's mouth, feeling Buck's brush eagerly against his. 

_God, how did he get to be such a good kisser? _

Watching some people French, when he'd occasionally seen others do so in public (like a trainwreck he couldn't look away from), could be disturbingly gross. Tonsil hockey was not his sport of choice. He had to admit Buck was even better at it than the others he'd been with, though all of them were good. The brunette knew exactly how to slide their tongues together, didn't try to just cram it down his throat or drool all over him. 

_Hmmm. Saliva._

He eases back, holds his hand up to Buck's mouth. "Get it wet," he says softly, looking him dead in the eye. The Soldier grips Steve's wrist, repositioning so he can carefully suck the blonde's ring finger into his mouth then pop it back out, shiny and slick. Next he eases the middle one and the pointer together against his slightly extended tongue - it's lavender too. Buck draws them slowly into his mouth, tightens his lips, bobs his head several times as he takes them in repeatedly. Steve is suddenly aware he's not breathing. 

_Who exactly is in charge here, Rogers?_

The brunette doesn't bother with the mechanic's palm. The blonde takes that as a clear indication of what he wants.

"Put your right leg over my knee," the smaller man calmly says, gesturing to his bent leg, trying to sound authoritative rather than like he's going to cum at any second. When Buck complies, resting his calf there and leaving a large space for the blonde to reach under it, around his thigh, the mechanic also tells him to move the left over. He does, spreading wide. 

Buck is already panting a bit and Steve hasn't even touched him there. The waiting game really got him going and honestly he wasn't the only one. The urge to tease him further is strong, to refuse to please him until he begs a little, but that makes the blonde feel a bit squidgy. The power play is to be sexy, not cruel or demeaning. He rubs gently around the Soldier's entrance, making him let out a small gasp, as if he'd forgotten just how good it felt. 

Steve returns his attention to the bigger man's neck, noticing not for the first time how much Buck enjoys when he intensifies the pressure of his suction. The hickeys fade almost instantly, but it's still exhilarating to leave them, to hear the Soldier whimper needily each time. There's a line with how hard he likes it though - the smaller man had learned quickly the Soldier did not like pain, not even the careful, minor kind so many enjoyed during these activities (including Steve). 

For a few days after he'd figured this out, the blonde had worried it said something about him, liking to be hurt a little after everything that had happened. Buck had what seemed the much more sensible reaction to being abused. But Steve remembers he'd liked those things long before he met Brock. Back when he was a dorky teen rubbing one out in his bedroom, he would squeeze his nipple over and over, progressively harder each time. Thinking about the Soldier doing those things for him makes him moan softly against the bigger man's skin. When Steve's fingers graze directly over Buck's opening a moment later he feels it slick there. 

_Fuck, he's so wet already._

The blonde pushes a finger in, careful but not overly so, and the bigger man groans. He just leaves it buried at first, moving the knuckles to press gently at the sensitive area in him again and again, until he's leaking out onto Steve's hand. The bigger man makes enticing, short sounds somewhere between a grunt and a moan. The mechanic all but slams the second finger into him, it slipping in faster and harder than intended with how lubricated the bigger man is. 

Steve opens his mouth to ask if he hurt him, to apologize, but a decidedly non-painful "uhhhn!" issues from beside him. He repeatedly draws the fingers out slow, pushing them back in quicker, a bit more forceful each time. The same incredible sound comes out of Buck again and again, getting louder and more out of control. He starts to curl his fingertips on the way out. 

"Please," the Soldier groans. Steve looks up from where he's ducked his head to lightly suck at a lavender nipple. Purple-blue irises, glowing brightly, bore into him. "_Please fuck me, Steve._" 

_Don't cum don't cum don't cum don't cum don't cum don't cum,_ he chants to himself like a holy mantra. 

The blonde reaches for the brush, wrapping his hand around the smooth, slightly curved back of the paddle. He points the tip of the handle towards Buck's mouth. 

"Get it wet," he says for the second time, soft but stern. 

The Soldier's eyes flip from Steve's to the object several times, lips slightly parted. The blonde watches realization dawn over the bigger man's face. Buck licks his lips, slides his head forward to take half of it into his mouth, once, twice, three times, making quite a show of the way his lips and tongue trail over it. Even watching him do this to such a mundane object is super arousing. He's definitely thought about his cock in the Soldier's mouth several times, but razor sharp teeth around what's essentially a blood tube understandably make him nervous. Plus he's not sure he's ready to reciprocate, and that would be unfair. 

Steve moves the brush slowly down, under Buck's bent leg, carefully brushes the small, round tip over his hole. The big man's chest is rising and falling fairly quickly (for him at least), and a wavering breath bursts out of him. When Steve gives him a questioning look he nods eagerly. The blonde immediately starts to push it into him, slow but steady. 

It doesn't get as thick as the mechanic's two fingers together until several inches up, but from there it fans much wider. It's not as girthy as Steve's cock at the widest part, but it's also hard and unyielding. He needs to be careful. When it gets to the half-way point, really starts to stretch him wider, Buck sighs out a long sound of enjoyment. 

"Do you like me filling you?" Steve whispers in Buck's ear, zero idea where the confidence to do that came from, as he continues burying it deeper in the bigger man's body. 

"Yes," the Soldier barely manages, adding an "aaauuuuhhhnnn!" when the thickest part stretches him, then slips inside.

Buck's rim tightens around the small cylinder connected to the paddle, the widest part of the handle buried a couple inches inside him, pressing against his sensitive spot. Steve flicks the paddle hard a few times with his thumb, creating a pleasant vibration through the bigger man's prostate. Buck forms little unintelligible, gasped words, and the mechanic takes that as his cue to ease it back out, then push it back home a bit faster. He starts to move it in and out steadily, in much the same way he had his fingers - dragging slowly out, then thrusting smoothly back in to the hilt. 

The Soldier loves it. He makes a high-pitched, overwhelmed sound in the back of his throat each time the thick end stretches him, pushes into him, metal hand shooting up to grip a shelf of the solid wood headboard. The blonde leans close again. 

"Do you like getting fucked by me?" 

"Y-y-yessss," the brunette whimpers. 

"Are you thinking about my cock inside you?" Steve is shocked - and impressed - by himself. He'd felt ridiculous trying to dirty talk Sam and Carol. 

"Yes! Yes!" Buck responds frantically. 

"You want me to spread you open with my fat head? Bury it inside you? Fuck you slow and deep?" 

Coincidentally, that was _precisely_ how Buck wanted it. He moans loud, not even able to form an answer, metal fingers tightening on the wood so hard it creaks. 

"Fuck, I want to be inside you. To feel you tight and wet and hot around me," Steve says in his most lusty tone. 

_Well shit, just let it all out, Rogers. No going back now. _

"I want to make you cum with my cock, without you even needing yours touched. The ridge of my head rubbing you just right each time I push in or pull out. Do you want to now though? Stroke yourself?" Steve had seen the Soldier's flesh hand repeatedly start to move towards that end, then stop. 

Buck's sounds get desperate. Finally he manages, "Please, please, please." 

"Touch yourself," the blonde breathes into his ear, before leaning up to watch. 

It takes the Soldier less than ten strokes before he brokenly screams and orgasms so hard it hits his own neck and face, Steve fucking him through it for what feels like a blissfully long time. 


	46. Instruction manual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things work out better with directions.

Steve chuckles softly. "Whatever you do, don't open your eyes." 

There are several long runners of the Soldier's clear jizz over his face, one trailing from his cheek up across his closed eyelid to his forehead and a second dangerously close to the corner of his other eye. The blonde blesses himself for having the forethought to bring the rag over and grabs it off the headboard. He cleans Buck up slow, including the large amount on his neck, settled into the dip between his clavicles and at the top of his sternum. He leaves the little line over his chin to his bottom lip. That Steve licks off, marveling again at how it tastes, running his tongue over the bigger man's mouth before pressing his own to it.

The brunette kisses him back lazily, utterly spent. His leg had slipped from Steve's seconds after he'd taken the brush handle out. The blonde sat just the paddle end carefully back on the headboard, the glistening grip hanging off the edge. The blonde eyes it now, tempted to clean the slick off with his hand and stroke himself shamelessly he's so turned on. His boyfriend is boneless and quiet, probably already asleep, which he's not even mad at. It's a huge compliment how thoroughly satisfied he seems. 

Suddeny the Soldier's flesh hand grazes lightly down the mechanic's belly to just above his pubic hair, then up to his chest, skimming a nipple. 

"May I please you?" Buck asks, turning his head to look up at the mechanic. 

When Steve looks him in the face there's not a hint of shyness there, only affection and want. It makes him feel hot everywhere, his face flushing, his cock getting harder. He nods. Buck sits up, moves the pillows into a little pile, gently grips Steve's waist and slowly, giving him time to protest, moves him to the center of the bed to lean half-upright against them. 

Buck, sitting between his parted thighs, leans in to give him an incredible, electrifying kiss. He runs his tongue lightly over Steve's lips after as the blonde had done to him moments before, sending a thrill through the smaller man. The Soldier moves to kiss Steve's jaw, his neck, flesh hand going to the headboard to steady himself. The mechanic's eyes flick to it and he notices the wood is actually cracked where the Soldier had squeezed it so hard before with his metal digits. 

_Fuck, I rock,_ he thinks in a rare burst of self-confidence. 

"Tell me what you like," the brunette breathes into his ear, flesh fingers moving to lightly stroke the blonde's nipple as he moves his metal hand to the shelf on the opposite side of Steve's head. 

"I like my neck sucked on, but... harder than you do." 

That makes a groan come out of Buck that's very different from the many types of sexy noises the mechanic had heard him make. It occurs to him, as the bigger man presses his open mouth to Steve's pulse point, the Soldier is probably thinking about a different kind of neck sucking. 

"Why..." the blonde starts but trails off, causing Buck to lean back and look at him with concern. He can't help but notice the Soldier's eyes have gone slightly more purple, remembering they were violet when he fed on the others. "Why haven't you ever bit me?" 

_Someone you really fucking want was about to touch your dick, Rogers. Don't ruin this for yourself._

The brunette eyes him thoughtfully. "I do not want to hurt you." 

"But it only hurts a little while, right? Then it feels good? Besides..." and, shit, he can't believe when this next bit comes out of his mouth, "I like some things to hurt a bit." 

Buck looks utterly scandalized, like he's told him he enjoys fucking the eye sockets of dead sheep. Steve sputters out in clarification, "during... sexy times. Just like...a little bit." 

The Soldier's mouth is still hanging open, his eyes going even wider. 

_Fuck, you made it worse! Quick, think of something!_

"Remember when I squeezed your nipple and you said it was too hard? Well, you don't like that type of pain. I do. But, like, just that much. Not a lot more." 

To his surprise, Buck reaches to Steve's chest again and gently tweaks his nipple, then does it a bit harder, repeating several times with more force until it gets a little breathy sound of arousal out of the blonde. The Soldier's eyebrows go up and he makes a face like he's discovered a scientific breakthrough. He does the same to the other side, leaning back in to suck hard at the sensitive spot a bit to the right of where Steve's neck curves into his shoulder. The mechanic softly moans. 

"What else?" the Soldier asks eagerly, voice husky. 

"I...I like teeth grazed over me. And to be...bit... softly..." He goes quiet, registers the shock on Buck's face when the bigger man pulls back. "I understand you can't do that though. Because of the whole... razor sharp thing. And because," he circles back to the matter at hand, "you don't want to drink from me." 

After a moment of silence wherein the brunette stares down at his hands resting on the tops of his thighs, Steve chuckles, trying to break the tension. "So I smell bad or something? Or like... tiny, weakling blood doesn't interest you?" 

Buck's eyes flare brighter and when he speaks his voice is low, gravelly and wanting. "You smell incredible. There are days I can think of nothing but my teeth in you, how good you will taste, how much I will enjoy you." 

Steve's mouth drops open for a long moment before he speaks. "Then... Then why haven't you?" 

"At first, I thought you would be frightened, disgusted even, especially to see me...like this." The Soldier motions open-handed to his face - his eyes glow brightly, pointy teeth extended. 

"Okay, but... I've seen you this way lots of times now. When you've fought people. When I brought you blood from the animals. Have I ever seemed grossed out?" 

Buck shakes his head.

"So... Why haven't you ever asked? I mean, I even offered and you said no." Steve tries not to look too dejected, but he can see in the brunette's face that he failed.

"I...I was afraid I couldn't resist." 

"Resist what?" The blonde makes a curious face.

"Pushing my pulse into you." The bigger man stares right into his eyes now, his own only getting more intense. "Burying it in you deep, pumping pleasure into you." 

The mechanic's jaw drops. He works his lips several times before getting out, "And thaaaat's...bad?" 

"I did not want you to be embarrassed in front of the others. You would...make sounds. Like the one's the neighbor heard from Luis. He did not do that intentionally. He cannot stop himself. He used to try. I would feel him tense with the effort of resisting, not wanting me to know how good it felt. But eventually the noises would escape. The better it became, the louder he was." 

"But what about before then, when we were alone?" Steve asks. 

"If I fed on you deeply, as I have Luis, it would be very overwhelming for you. You would most likely not be able to move, to speak, and after we will have an intense need to be near each other. I will especially feel that. I am afraid with how close to you I am, how much I care for you, want you in every way, it will be far stronger than it ever was with him. I will be even more..._out of it_, as they say. I may not even let you leave the bed. I would tear apart anyone who came near you. I thought, given the things that happened to you, and your many boundaries... all of which I understand...you would not want to feel so helpless." 

The blonde seems to consider his words a long time, a thoughtful expression on his features. "What if we...went slow with that, too?" 

"I do not understand." 

"Well, I'm assuming the effect is much stronger if your teeth are actually _in_ someone," Steve muses. "We could work our way up to that."

"Yes. But I was still able to achieve some of the effect even with my mouth on the knife wounds." 

"What if...you just graze me? Take a little? Then heal me up. You could do that a few times..." The blonde gives him a sweet look. "Then it wouldn't get so intense for either of us."

"But I wanted...to please you," Buck half-whispers, looking down at Steve's now mostly-soft cock. 

"You could do both." 

The look on Steve's face is decidedly _not sweet_ when the brunette looks back up. It's positively searing. He grips the Soldier's flesh hand, brings the fingers back to his nipple. "You can touch me anywhere, except my hole," he whispers. 

_Well done. Just put it right out there what's a no go. Avoid a repeat of the accidental-almost-fingering from the power couple. Although, hole is such a not sexy word, Rogers. Do better next time._

"And I mean you can touch me with both hands," the blonde adds. "The metal one doesn't bother me."

The bigger man's eyes go wide - he looks very hungry in several different ways all at once. He leans back in, presses his lips to Steve's neck as his fingers tease at the now-hard little lump on the narrow chest. The metal arm slides around the blonde. It feels fairly warm today and the ultra-smooth fingers slide up and down his spine like silk, then ease up to lightly grip the back of his neck. Buck sucks harder at the sensitive flesh, tightens his thumb and finger around the pink nerve bundle. 

Steve moans outright, hips slightly bucking. His right hand tangles in the dark, silky locks, his left grips the bigger man's right shoulder. 

"Taste me," he whispers in Buck's ear. The Soldier groans against his skin, then lightly grazes one canine over it. There's a little electric crackle of pain, just the right amount, and Steve moans. He tightens his grip on the brunette as his mouth locks over the scratch and he sucks hard. 

The Soldier whimpers, metal arm sliding down and tightening around the smaller man, flesh hand moving to the side of the blonde's face. The Soldier drinks just long enough that the pulse starts to flit into the mechanic, melt the pain, spread a soft tingle out a few inches in every direction from Buck's teeth where they press against him. Steve feels the wet lave of his tongue seconds later, healing him, and - fuck - that's good too. The bigger man pulls back, eyes electric purple now, half closed.

"_You taste so good,_" he groans, voice deep and broken. "So sweet." 

Steve bends his head the opposite way, offering the other side of his neck. Buck is on him in seconds, making another small cut, reveling in the little sounds that come out of the blonde. He sucks even longer, allows his pulse to spread farther. His hands trail all over the smaller man, down his chest, around the slight curve of his waist, gripping his narrow hips then sliding under him to gently squeeze his cheeks. He remembered Steve's face when he had done that to him before and he's gratified when it pulls a groan from the little mechanic. 

Buck sucks dark marks into Steve's neck between each little taste, making the blonde whimper needily, his fingers pressing into the Soldier's scalp and shoulder. The bigger man feels hot, his skin buzzing, pleasure taking root inside him and growing stronger the more he drinks. He's never combined feeding and arousal nor equated the two, would have never even thought of it before now. Despite the previous confusion about his feelings for Luis, he had assumed any sexual attraction he may have had for the man was separate from his blood-want. The brunette knows he'll crave this with Steve from now on, the combining of all his wants, all his needs. 

The bigger man moves down his body. Kiss. Suck. Scratch. Suck harder. Tingle. Throb. Lick. Both of them moan softly again and again as Buck repeats the process, getting steadily lower, hands moving occasionally to roll the blonde's nipples between his fingertips. He presses his lips to Steve's inner thigh as he slides his metal hand down to lightly grip the blonde's sack, rubbing then squeezing gently several times. 

"Just a little harder," Steve breathes. The Soldier complies, applying more pressure with his fingers, careful not to go too far. When the blonde moans loud, he thrusts the point of one canine into the meat of his slender leg. It just grazes the artery there and he clamps his mouth around the puncture. They both groan, Steve at the pleasure-pain and Buck at the hot, rich blood weakly spurting into his mouth as he presses the flat fronts of his teeth to the blonde's soft skin. He reaches behind himself with his metal hand, runs the fingers through the slickness still on his body, then grips the little mechanic's hard length, starts slowly pumping him.

"Uhh!" Steve exhales, his grip tightening on Buck. 

The Soldier groans loud in response, vibration running through Steve's thigh along with the tingle-throb spreading there. His flesh hand grips the back of the smaller man's leg just above the inside of his knee, lifting it slightly, pressing it tighter to his mouth. Buck can't resist pushing his pulse into the little mechanic harder, making him moan louder as he works him faster with his hand. The blonde takes a hold of it, repositioning it half way up his length. 

"From here to...to the tip... Straight up and down. I...I like that best. Especially...right around the head." 

Buck groans in his throat at the direction, which he eagerly follows. It draws a wail from the smaller man as he strokes him smoothly mid-shaft to end, rubbing his thumb across the sensitive spot on the underside of the head as he rounds his fingers over the tip, extra pressure on the middle knuckles over the slit. He does it again and again, exactly the same each time, Steve's nervous system lighting up until he feels like he's melting in the best possible way. Each pulsation only drives the feeling harder, spreads it farther, pushes something low in him to coil tighter until it feels about to spring.

"Don't stop!" the blonde suddenly groans. "Please don't stop, Buck! I'm... I'm gonna... I'm....!" 

Steve finishes blindingly, toe-curlingly hard, making loud, open, long sounds he didn't know he was even capable of. His load coats his chest and belly, the Soldier's hand, droplets spraying onto Buck's cheek. It feels like hours - days - as the spasms wash through him, the slow throb of the pulse occasionally overlapping and pushing them harder, forcing his cock to spurt farther. After, he feels untethered, like he's floated out into the universe, soul adrift in a bathwater warm sea of nothing.


	47. But then I got high...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve trip balls.

At first the after effects had made them painfully open and intensely emotional. They laid close, whispering secret things to each other, revealing and confessing and admitting. The blonde tells him about his mom under her sheet, his pillhead father. He talks about Frank Delino and the trash can lid, about Jack and the bomb, the fear he feels for his own nearly bottomless rage. 

Buck tells him about the people he was made to kill, how he sees their faces and hears their begging in his dreams. For the first time he talks about a guard in the secondary facility who would take him to the examination room earlier than the doctors requested. The man would order, _Bend over the table. Spread your legs._ There had been no pain though he could _feel_ it pushing into him. He didn't register discomfort, had no active thoughts, with the neural net. Some part of him still knew. 

_Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Make it stop._

Steve starts to cry and worries aloud if the things he's done to Buck were what the bigger man really wanted. His greatest fear is not people like Brock, _but to become like Brock._ The Soldier pulls him close, tells the little mechanic he had only ever felt good and safe when the smaller man touched him. He explains how the new memories layer over the old one by one, making the unwanted past more and more dim. The blonde apologizes that it can't be that way for himself, that he can't give or accept freely in every way and isn't sure if he'll ever be able to. Putting himself back together is not a matter of covering over the bad with the good. It's like assembling a jigsaw puzzle where he doesn't know what picture is on the box and a lot of the edge shapes are missing. 

Buck tells him he is grateful for whatever pieces of himself that Steve offers, holds him close, whispers "I love you," to him. The smaller man buries his wet face against the Soldier's chest and sobs hard until he wears himself out. It is okay that Steve had not repeated Buck's words back to him - he had not rejected them either. They eventually fall asleep, drift in and out throughout the morning. Tangled together, they're both still naked with the blankets haphazardly yanked over them. 

After the initial upset, they have a sort of catharsis. Both let themselves get lost in the feed afterglow, amplified by all the post-orgasm soft and fuzzy hormones coursing through them. Steve's warmth was all around the Soldier, inside him. The sea-blue eyes fixed on his when he woke, the smaller man leaning to press soft kisses to wherever his mouth could reach. Sometimes they said nothing, just gazing at each other. Other times they babbled merrily about inanity. 

For the very first time in the short part of his body's existence where he'd actually been in control of it, the Soldier feels at peace - with his surroundings, with what he is, with who he is. _This_ is all he wants or needs, this shared intimacy. To be accepted and deemed worthy and trusted by this interesting, clever, complicated, beautiful person.

Only the blonde's increasingly loud belly rumbling had gotten them out of bed. 

Buck has a big dopey smile on his face as Clint notices him enter the mess hall, eyes a color he's never seen them, chin length hair messy in a way he still manages to pull off. He's got on black sweats and a ratty teal sleeveless t-shirt, showing off his impressive physique, but he's not wearing socks or shoes. Steve is under his arm, wearing only his work boots - untied with the laces tucked in - and one of his less sexy nighties. He's absently scratching at his short, thick beard, the Soldier reaching over to do the same, making him laugh. 

The bigger man starts to pile things from the hot line on a comically large serving tray they brought with them, sliding it slowly down the counter with his flesh hand. 

"Oooh, oooh. Glazed carrots. _Get the carrots_!" Steve too-loud whispers, his arms wrapped around Buck's waist from behind. He has his body twisted to press his right cheek to the left side of the brunette's ribs, so he can see around him. The bigger man's metal arm is bent with his elbow resting against his own back, forearm wrapped around Steve's shoulders. 

"Care-ruts," Buck says. "That is a funny word. Caaare-ruuuts." 

Steve starts to giggle. "Care-ruuuuts!" he responds, speaking in a voice much lower than his already naturally deep one, dropping his jaw dramatically on the second syllable as the Solider turns to look down at him. The brunette lets out a throaty, stuttering laugh that's painfully dorky and much too loud. 

"Huhuhuhuh!" 

Everyone turns to look.

"So, hiiii," Clint says at a safe-from-being-throat-punched distance behind them. 

Buck turns, Steve still attached to him, effectively moving himself between the archer and the mechanic. He had not meant to, but maybe it was instinct. Whatever was happening was a bit...Cling-like. He's too pleasantly fuzzy to get very reactive, especially when he sees it's only Clint.

"Heeeyyy, dude! Did you get any," the blonde drops his voice again, "care-ruts?" 

"Are you two alriii...?" Clint trails off as Buck reaches back to the tray, then around his front without even looking and shoves a huge, sticky carrot hunk into Steve's mouth.

"Mmmmmm. Deese'r so sweet," he says around the mouthful, looking up at the Soldier as he wipes the juice from his facial hair.

"Just like you," the Soldier replies, then kisses him lightly on the top of his head. 

The archer thinks it's an endearment (and it surprises him since Buck doesn't do non-literal compliments), but the mechanic knows the big man is referencing how he tastes. Steve rubs his face back and forth on Buck's side affectionately, happy he'd shared that part of himself with him finally, the trust between them more important than the pleasure. The brunette leans down a bit and copies the gesture in Steve's fluffy blonde hair. It lasts an awkward amount of time, holding up the line.

"Okay, what the fuck? What are you two on? _ And why didn't you share?"_ Clint pouts. 

"We're high on love," Steve says very seriously. A second later his face breaks into a big smile and he starts to laugh hysterically.

Buck joins in like some alternate-reality Butthead. "Huhuhuhuh!"

"You're holding up traffic!" someone complains from behind them.

"Get a room," someone else adds.

"I'll get a room with your mom!" Steve calls over to them, then turns back to Buck. "Beep beep!" the blonde says, tweaking the taller man's side. "Gotta motor, Clint."

"Clint sounds very similar to clit," the Soldier muses as he turns back to the line, putting a big scoop of everything that doesn't have meat in it on one side of the tray until it's piled high. "I do not find vaginas arousing," Buck continues, looking up at the ceiling as if lost in thought. "They are fascinating to look at, but not a..._turn on_. I do not believe I am sexually attracted to women."

"Not all women have vaginas," the mechanic reminds him. 

"Yes. I read about that in the book." He pauses, considers. "I am not aroused by breasts either. Would you prefer if we had the same...orientation?" 

"Nah. Less competition for me," Steve grins.

"You do not have _any competition,_" the Soldier says, smiling warmly at the blonde pressed to his side. 

Buck is messily filling the other half of the tray with a mountain of raw produce. Steve pulls up the front of his nightshirt enough to form a little sack, which he fills with rolls. The archer walks along behind them cleaning up the damage. 

"Oh, gag. What's with you two?" their friend demands. "You're being even weirder than usual." 

The Soldier leans back, conspiratorially, and whispers entirely too loud, "We did sexy things to each other." 

"You're all good now then? Just like that? After Steve ditched you for a week when you were hurt?" 

The brunette nods.

"And after the big guy kept a bunch of shit from you?" Clint looks at Steve.

"_We kissed and made up,_" the blonde smirks, presses himself back to the tall man's side. 

"So after he assaulted your pal and told him he could have you, and his whole life, including his **friends**, you just... get right back to fucking?" He eyes the Soldier with annoyance. _The naive moron._

"I mean...Yes. But also, there was talking," Steve answers for Buck. The second he doesn't need both hands, situating his grip to hold up his shirt-sack with just his left, he links arms with Buck and they start to walk towards the table.

"Using your dickcraft on Buck is one thing. You gonna try to fuck us all into forgiveness?" 

Buck makes a pissy face, growls low, pulls the little mechanic closer.

"I'm not serious. God. You're as bad as your boyfriend with that jealousy shit. Steve, you were a total jackass. Everyone's salty, even Win. I'm not sure you should sit with us till you've got your head on straight and can apologize." 

"Oooooo, was I voted off the island?" The blonde looks up at the Soldier. "I was very naughty," he loudly whispers. "I can't sit at their lunch table anymore. Or copy their math homework."

"Do not be mad at Steve," the brunette implores. 

"Why the fuck not?" 

"Because I love him," Buck says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Clint's jaw drops. "And because we are sharing a plate, so we need to sit together. But I also wish to sit with you. Please do not make me choose, Clint." He makes a surprisingly effective puppy dog face. "You are tied for my second favorite person who is not Steve."

"Fine, fine! That must have been some real sexual sorcery you did to him, Stevie. _Shit, sorry._ I didn't mean to call you that." 

"You go ahead to the table," the blonde tells the brunette. 

"What about you?" he pouts. 

"It's okay. Really. I'll be there in a minute."

"Only _one_ minute." Buck makes a very adorable frown. 

Steve chuckles and nods, leans to press a loud smacking kiss on his metal bicep. 

"We're gonna talk about this _second favorite_ crap when I get over there! _After everything I've taught you_!" Clint calls after the taller man. 

Once the Soldier is saying his hellos to the gang on the other side of the room, the blonde turns to the archer. "Will you forgive me if I let you call me Stevie without retaliation?"

Clint considers. "Tell me why you don't like it." 

"Okay. I had this...friend. Jack. He died, saving my life. He was the only person that ever called me that. It was the last word he said to me." 

Barton's face falls. "I'm so sorry, dude. Why didn't you just say that, before?" 

"I never talked about him. To anyone. Until earlier today." Steve looks over to his boyfriend, settling in at the table, goofy grin still on his face as he insists on fist bumps all around. 

"You guys _really_ talked then? Not just humped?"

Steve nods.

"I love you, man. You know I do...."

"Yah, yah, _in a not gay way._" Steve mocks the archer, playfully rolling his eyes. 

"_I didn't say it this time!_ But seriously, you can't run off like that. It's not fair to everyone, especially Buck. He's so hung up on you and he doesn't have the faculties to just brush off your mood swings like I do."

"I know! I know. I just... panicked. Everything was going so great, before the reavertown. And it all just crashed and burned in a day. He almost died. Then my friends almost killed each other at my house and then...I thought it was all a lie. Everything he told me, made me feel. I just...crumbled inside."

"Look, it was a scary day. I know, I was there. And I get you being miffed he didn't tell you the whole truth, but fuck. We were all worried sick. Plus... **we're your family.** You're supposed to look to us when things are hard. You don't need to do everything alone." 

The mechanic puts his hand on the archer's shoulder. "Thanks, **Clit.**" He smiles. "I'd hug you, but right now Buck might punch your lights out. We...may have done some bitey stuff too and he mentioned before he could get a tad protective. Rip someone in half like a phonebook protective. Also, I'll drop all my rolls." Steve looks lovingly into his shirt-pouch. "I need you. _I need all of you._"

"Speaking of bitey, you do know Luis has never done your man, right? They're just neck munching homies and nothing else. And honestly if you give him a chance, he's pretty cool. Fair warning though, I think he has a little thing for Win." 

"She's a free woman. Besides, my heart is otherwise occupied." Steve puts a hand dramatically to his chest. 

"_Gross._ I don't think I like you this soft." Clint grins. 

"That's what she said," the blonde responds. 

Once he approaches the table, everyone goes quiet. 

"Hi," he offers meekly. _Man, this was harshing his buzz._

"Hello!" Buck says happily, patting the spot next to him. 

Clint takes the spot two over from the Soldier, across from Nat, who's flanked by Greta and Win (with Luis to the welder's right, across from Buck). Clint gestures for the blonde to sit between him and the Solider. 

"Umm, I was a cock. _Again._ But I'm going to make it up to all of you. Just...ask me for anything. One time opportunity." He dumps his carbohydrate hoard on the table and sits down. The blonde picks up a roll and shoves half of it in his mouth, groans, chews loudly. 

"Anything?" the redhead questions. 

Steve nods. "Sexuh nidey?" he asks around the second half of the roll. 

"Kiss Clint," she says immediately. 

"Oh my god, you've thought about this!" Clint sounds scandalized. 

"I have!" Greta raises her hand. 

"The beard is really doing it for me." Nat winks. 

The Soldier growls. 

"Buuuuck, certainly you don't mind if someone kisses my husband a bit?" The redhead had a very specific tone. 

The Solider quiets, sheepishly shakes his head as a lightbulb practically goes off over the mechanic's. "Did...Clint teach you to kiss?" he asks. 

Buck's eyes go wide, but he is being honest, so he nods. 

"Well," the blonde shrugs, turning to the archer, "at least I know you're not bad at it, if your pupil's any indication," Steve says to Clint. "Pucker up."

"Yuck. You're like my brother," the archer grimaces. 

"If you kissed Buck you've basically already kissed me," the mechanic says matter of factly. "Do it for the family," Steve half-whispers, grinning.

"You people are fucked up," Luis laughs. "I'd rather go back to the cannibals than kiss Clint."

"Can't take heat, leave the kitchen," Win grins. "Well? Haven't got all day," she addresses Clint. 

"Fine! Fine!" the archer relents. "But no tongue, Stevie!"

Steve looks to Nat. "Acceptable," she responds.

"You're all crummy," Clint grumbles, reaching up to ruffle Steve's beard. 

Steve grabs the archer's face abruptly with both hands, hits him with a searing liplock. The girls all cheer and hoot as Clint grudgingly returns the kiss, grabbing the mechanic by the shoulders to be funny. The blonde pulls back half a minute later, then licks the front of Clint's nose, across his nostrils. The archer giggles despite himself, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand. "You asshole!" 

"Ladies. Scores?" Nat asks.

"Four out of ten," Win grins at Steve. "Seen you do better. Fix water pump three after lunch and we are good."

"I'm a little damp. And it isn't incontinence," Greta responds. "Welcome back." It turned out she hadn't even been on trasher rotation. She'd rode back with him, rifle at the ready just in case.

"I give it a six for form, but a nine for enthusiasm. Bonus points for degrading my husband publicly, which I'm very into. Apology accepted." The redhead offers him her hand, which he shakes. 

"Luis, could I talk to you? In private." Steve tries his best to look non-threatening. 

"Wanna make both sides match?" the green eyed man asks, showing his left cheek then turning to reveal the black bruise and swelling on his right. 

"Please," the blonde asks, heartfelt.

Luis looks at Buck, who mouths _please_. He sighs. "Fine, flaco. But I'm swinging back this time if I need to." 

Once they're in a far corner, the mechanic crosses his arms, suddenly feeling exposed and nervous. 

"Buck... Winter...told me everything," Steve starts. "Including that he kissed you and you kissed him." 

"Did he tell you I laughed immediately after and said what a dumbass I was?" 

"I want to hear your version," the blonde says sincerely. 

"It's really difficult to understand what he is to me. I think, when I found out he was with someone, that he liked men, I started to question if maybe there was something like that between us and neither of us knew it. Then he kissed me and I said fuck it, might as well try it. But, it isn't like that. It just...is whatever it is. I don't want to do him, or date him, and the feeling's mutual. He wouldn't shut up about you. Kept saying how he was sure now that his feelings for you were real and he had to get you to forgive him. Poor lovesick idiot." 

"Can you forgive me?" Steve says earnestly. 

"What'll you give me?" Luis asks. 

"I'll let him keep biting you."

"With respect, you don't _let him_ do anything. He's his own person." Luis crosses his arms. "And you sure as fuck don't give me permission to do anything." 

_Shit, it's like looking in a mirror, Rogers. A funhouse mirror that makes you hot._

"Fine, fine. I'm just saying I won't stand in the way of whatever's between you two. Unless I think the whole not having a crush on him thing changes. Then I'll go Hammel House on your ass." 

The green eyed man makes an interested face. "Hammel House? You from Queens, man?" 

"Brooklyn actually. Born and raised. Lived in Queens for a bit though." 

"Ha! Isn't that some shit! I came up in Pomonok. Lived in Queens my whole life 'til this."

"No way!" 

"Fuck, I miss the city." Luis grins. 

"Funny how quick the fancy folks left once part of it was under water." The blonde shakes his head. 

"Truth! You didn't see any of those yuppies stacking sand bags." 

They both chuckle.

"Look," the mechanic says after a brief pause "a little birdy told me you seem to like Win."

"This the part where you tell me she's your ex and hands off?" He's smiling pleasantly, despite his words. "I noticed the comment from her earlier, about the kissing." 

"No! I mean, sort of. But no." The blonde shakes his head. "She's my best friend. I did used to have a thing for her. We," he considers Win's privacy, "kissed. But she didn't want a relationship. I sulked but I got over it. It's old news." 

"So why are you asking?" The young man eyes him. 

"Well, I noticed your tattoos, back at the school. Mayan art, right? They're really nice work." 

"Thanks. My cousin did'em, God rest her." 

"She's definitely into that. Show those off. You're good with cutting your own hair too. You ever have a mohawk?" 

"Sure, a bunch of times." 

"I've flipped through a lot of magazines with her." And by that he means accidentally found her spank bank. "Trust me when I say she has a thing for that. Yes, I know, laughably pathetic I thought I had a shot." Steve gives him a self-deprecating grin. "Beyond that, just don't bullshit her. She'll smell that a mile away. She either likes you, or she doesn't, no help or interference from me. But if you screw her over, I'll have a roll of quarters in my fist next time I sock you." 

"You're a hardcore little motherfucker, you know that?" Luis chuckles.

"Maybe I'll get that tattooed on my neck? What do you think?" 

"I think Winter would ruin it really fast. I could tell he bit you proper. You're all loopy. Welcome to the very exclusive club."

"The first rule of bite club is you don't talk about bite club." Steve grins. 

"Seriously though, I'm happy he's not alone. He deserves to have someone, to have people." 

"Yes, he does," Steve agrees, suddenly realizing in his blissed out haze he's forgotten something very important. Buck's other people.


	48. I'm tellin' y'all, it's sabotage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve do some much needed, but unconventional, chores.

Steve figures the loose garment will only be in his way, so when he goes home to get his tools he changes out of it into his work clothes. The Soldier watches, obviously already _interested_. The blonde grins as the taller man moves close; big, grasping hands reach for him carefully.

"Bed," the brunette insists.

"Water pump!" the blonde replies. 

The bigger man was already leaning low to kiss his neck and the smaller man's response earns a groan of disappointment against his skin. The mechanic chuckles.

"The faster I go, the faster I'll be back," he whispers in Buck's ear before pecking him on the cheek. "I have a few other errands while you do your chores but we should still have some time before the gang gets here for cards." 

The Soldier tries not to pout. He respects Steve's wishes, especially about when and how they are physical. He has also been aware for a while that his libido is more insistent, perhaps a side effect of so recently discovering the sexual part of himself. More than once when they were still only "getting themselves off," Steve had kissed and touched him as Buck chased a second - and even occasionally third - orgasm, the blonde long since spent but more than happy to be involved. He had not needed more after Steve had pleased him, but the want flared again fast enough a few hours later. 

He also feels hypersensitive from the morning's events. _Needy_, Clint would say. It seems harder for him to not be close than for the mechanic. The Cling is manageable but still pulls at him, along with his lust and some other hard to define force. There is fear as well. The bigger man draws himself slowly away, attempting to make a pleasant face as he stands. He must not succeed because the blonde laughs, sudden and loud, when he sees it. 

"Sorry, sorry. You look like someone kicked your dog," Steve says breathlessly a moment later.

"I do not have a dog," he responds quizzically. 

"I think it's an idiom." Steve hoists his tool box. "It means you look like someone wronged you. You can, uhhh, cheer yourself up while I'm away. I won't mind." The blonde wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and then looks pointedly at Buck's crotch.

"I do not feel wronged. I am..." Needy. Aroused. Afraid you will not come back. "...not interested in staying home." 

"I need you to do those chores I asked, though," the mechanic says pleasantly enough. He can see how hard it is for Buck, the thought of them separating. Maybe it was good if he didn't bite him right away if this was just from sucking briefly on a few tiny wounds. 

"Will you... Are you sure..." The Soldier starts and stops. 

Steve looks at him hard, suddenly serious. "What's wrong?"

"You will..." the bigger man pauses, eyes flicking away and back to meet the blonde's. "You will not leave again?"

"No! No. Of course not." So it wasn't just the feeding making him like this. The smaller man puts his hand on the brunette's arm, face perplexed. How can he convince him? After a moment the blonde brightens. He fishes in the toolbox, pulls out something, hands it to Buck. "Here!" 

The bigger man looks down at the object, recalling the mechanic explaining its use and why he preferred it. "This is your favorite spanner wrench." 

"You can hold onto it for me until I get back." Steve gives him a warm smile, trying to be reassuring, kicking himself again for being such a _fucking stupid asshole_ before. Running away like a selfish coward was not his finest moment.

Buck holds it tight, presses it to his belly. The gesture - or all that it conveys - makes Steve very badly want to take the big man with him. He knows he won't get anything done with a clingy Buck around though, especially when he himself is still feeling so distractible. _God, he looks good in that shirt._ Plus he needs the Soldier to put his meticulous attention to detail to work without himself there to throw him off. 

"I will...do the chores you requested." The bigger man attempts a smile which Steve returns briefly before exiting the shanty. 

Water pump three was a real shitwaffle. Steve hadn't had as many good parts by the time they got around to building it and had to improvise. It had always broke down a lot and - with what a hodge-podge the guts of it were - it was a wonder it had never exploded. Now it was getting a lot of extra use with the tubs from the Green Place. The bath water was siphoned after and put on the crops, so it wasn't wasted (Wanda had assured it was perfectly safe if they stuck to using certain types of cleanser), but it still meant extra wear on the equipment to fill them. Fuck, a bath sounded good. Even a "sloppy second," the knickname that had stuck for popping in the tub quick after the person who was on the schedule had already used it. It grossed some people out, but he knew from his books hundreds of years ago - before indoor plumbing - entire families took turns using the same tub full of water. 

_I don't want your sloppy seconds,_ he hears Brock say to Jack. 

_Really? Really, today? Still?_ Steve yells inside his head angrily at the intruding thought.

Maybe that's why, when Jasper appears with all the bad timing of a sitcom, he's even less pleasant to the bespectacled man than usual. 

"Hello, Steven. I heard you and Buck made up." The voice comes from close behind him and that alone is enough to make him startle and cringe.

"Holy fucking shit, Sitwell!" The blonde throws his wrench down. "Get a boyfriend already! Or just, like, give a blowjob to a bored stranger! Something."

"I meant I _heard_ some gossip. Not the two of you...actually..." 

The mechanic's eyes go big. "Oh," he manages, feeling rather stupid. 

"And I've told you repeatedly I'm not interested in men." The bald man frowns, reddens. 

Steve usually runs away from these conversations, literally or metaphorically, quick as fuck. It's hard for him - pretty and delicate and weak his whole life - to imagine what _not being considered queer by everyone_ was even like. Of course his appearance had fuckall to do with his orientation - big strapping Buck had unintentionally announced himself as homosexual at breakfast, after all, but some people were still ignorant and acted on stereotypes. He'd just always lived with being thought of that way, especially when he was out. Whether negatively, positively or in the neutral, indifferent way most people were about the subject now people usually just assumed who - what - he was. Passibility was never something he had to surrender.

Plus he'd had the best, most supportive mom in the whole world. One who always watched his favorite vintage movies starring Rachel Weisz - his number one crush for years, even though she was geriatric in real life at that point (but still a foxy old lady he might add) or told him when MMA was on with that knowing look. She was equally likely to nudge him and say "he's cute" as "she's cute" if they saw a group of kids his age on the train (he was equally likely to turn red and silent in return). 

Something today just itches to be scratched. Maybe it's thinking of Brock, another probably-closet case who had told him at length all the ways he was like a girl (but better! Because no periods or pregnancy; _hard eye roll_). It isn't a malicious feeling like the ones that usually get him to react to his neighbor. It's a sad one honestly. Maybe how amazing his morning was made him feel bad that Jasper couldn't have that with someone. He scoops up the flung tool from the ground. 

"Look, it's been almost a hundred years since Stonewall and queer people had it better than ever before the collapse. But there's still that minority of phobic assholes and probably always with be. So some people are still afraid to admit who they are, even to themselves. And I get it. I've heard it all since I was a kid. Cocksucker. Pillow biter. Faggot. It doesn't feel good, even for someone like me who's really never been ashamed of that part of myself." 

"That's...I..." 

"Look, Jasper. I'll be honest. I saw you check me out when we met. I've seen you do it lots of times. So I get you get a thrill listening to me and Buck and, as fucked up and weird as it is to do, maybe talking to me about it is as close as you know you'll ever get to fucking me." 

Sitwell, for once, has nothing to say. 

"There was a time I even thought you were cute, that I'd ask you out eventually. And honestly you being a closet case wouldn't have stopped me from going after you, even if it would have gotten me in a situation I'd be less than happy in." He looks down at the wrench. 

"What did?" Jasper says quietly, surprising him. It's dangerously close to an admission on his part that Steve isn't far off base.

"You're a fucking dick. A massive, creepy, clueless, arrogant dick. And until you can have a normal, civil conversation with me that's not about my love life or how important you _used to be_, I don't think I want you to talk to me." 

Sitwell turns several colors, teeth grinding. "You'll be really sorry you said that to me, Steven. Really sorry." He storms off.

_Doubtful._ But he would be really sorry about what he had to do next if it didn't work in his favor. He fiddles in the pump, moving around parts and not lubricating a damn things like he should. Then he turns it on and stands back. Way back. Two minutes later it overheats and blows up spectacularly, the noise drawing people to him, including Nick. He feigns frustration and swears loudly, still a good actor when he needs to be. The bald man chews him out in his office for nearly an hour - about the pump, his little escape act, pointing a _goddamn gun at his motherfuckin' face_.

"I can get a new pump. I can get three new pumps. I passed by some when I was on the road with Brock. I just need a truck and a crew." 

It's a hard sell. Fury is more than a tad suspicious, but - as Steve so often does - he eventually gets Nick committed as if it were his own plan. 

Back at the house, Buck assures him he's checked every millimeter of their dwelling and the surrounding areas. He found no listening devices nor anything else suspicious. To his credit, he'd been pretty laid back about this random request. Steve hadn't told him why he needed it done when he'd whispered it to him at breakfast (far too low for anyone human to hear, even if they sat right next to him) after his discussion with Luis. The bigger man didn't ask now - perhaps their mutual distrust for Fury seemed like reason enough and the man had been in their home recently. After all, the Soldier also knew about the listening device Gurminder had found in his office, probably planted by Nick himself during a drop-in.

Once Steve pops his clothes off and takes his sweet time putting his nightshirt back on, Buck isn't thinking about too much else. The blonde's libido shocks its owner for the second time today when he quickly finds himself huddled on the bed in a make-out session he instigated with the bigger man. The Soldier had, somewhat reluctantly, returned the spanner wrench and it was sickeningly adorable. The smaller man could picture him walking (and climbing) around the place, and the neighboring dwellings, still clutching it like a magic charm. He feels awful for making Buck so insecure about their status, needs to reassure him. It's far too easy to kiss him, then to do it harder. To walk him back to the bed when warmth flares in Steve's belly, to push the bigger man until the backs of his legs hit the side of the bed, until he sits down. It's easier still to give in to Buck gently tugging at his hips - always hesitant to be too forceful or pushy - and take the cue to shimmy up on to his lap. 

On the surface it's far more mundane than their intense (_and super kinky!_ Steve thinks proudly) exploits from the morning. It feels amazing though, in a very different way. It's like their connection from earlier switches back on immediately, amplifying every sensation. The very cells of their bodies seem to percolate with energy as soon as they touch, everything else fading away. There's no frantic urgency like before, but that's just fine. Both of them are warm and hazy, taking things slow as molasses. Their sounds are low, awestruck, and just for them. 

The feel of the bigger man's lips - pressing long, soft, open-mouthed kisses to the slender column of his neck - makes his skin vibrate. Trails of fire follow the Soldier's hands as they travel over his body, running up and down his back, over his hips and across his little abs beneath the nightshirt. They stop their movements long enough to grip the blonde's waist, pull him closer. 

Steve had gotten Buck's top and pants off before they'd even made it up on the mattress and now he has his bottom on the Soldier's crossed bare legs with his own splayed to either side of the bigger man's hips. He eagerly touches the flawless soft gray skin, gently trailing circles around the brunette's chest scars with the tip of his finger when he reaches them. Mouthing at the spot where metal meets flesh on Buck's shoulder pulls a delicious little groan from the bigger man. 

The blonde pulls back, looks into the periwinkle eyes, whispers softly "show me what you want." 

Buck carefully eases the nightshirt from beneath Steve and pulls it up around his belly, revealing the mechanic's sharp hip bones and full erection. He effortlessly slides Steve close until it is flush with his own. The Soldier gently takes Steve's hand, pulls it to his face, rubs his cheek against it several times before kissing - and then generously licking - his palm and fingers. He moves it to them, around them, looking into Steve's eyes with humble expectancy. 

At first he can only whimper at how good the little mechanic feels stroking them, his weight (what little there is) firmly in his lap for the first time. He is so warm, so soft beneath the pads of Buck's fingers, and he smells so good. The urge to taste him, to have his pulse in him, grows strong but he wills it to calm. Their friends will be here soon and Steve will need his faculties for whatever he wants to tell them. Besides, he likes this slow unraveling of each other. While he had enjoyed the sounds it drew from Steve earlier, he finds he does not always want to cause him pain during these activities. 

He loses a grasp on any real thought not much later, melting into the sensation of their extra sensitive lengths pressed together, the lightly calloused hand moving up and down with ease, spreading the wetness he had put on it. The Soldier loves that Steve allows him to see his cock now, to see him touching it without shame. Buck stares down, open mouthed, lids heavy, as the blonde's hand works them. It looks so enticing, the similarities and differences between them laid bare. Steve's is only a half inch shorter, his flesh tone turning to pink and red where his own is gray with lavender and purple and especially dark at the tip. The base of both are nearly the same girth, but the blonde's stays that thickness all the way to his head, which is fatter and more round than Buck's. His own length tapers slightly, head a bit more flattened along the top, bulging slightly more at the bottom. 

Buck wants to tell Steve how amazing he is, how incredible he feels, how beautiful he looks - flushed cheeks, parted dark rose lips, sea-blue irises narrowed by widened pupils and partially obscured by his big lashes. The pink spreads down his neck - the dark marks the Soldier had left their earlier standing out against it - and even reaches his chest. A soft _uhhh_ is all the brunette can manage though, again and again, the little mechanic responding with a rumble deep in his chest. They lock eyes, quick breathing the only sound in the room for a moment, then they both finish simultaneously. The bigger man presses their foreheads together as they pant and groan through it, clutching at each other while they tremble.


	49. Playing to Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's card game takes an interesting turn.

There weren't chairs for all his guests, so some brought their own but there's not enough space at the table. Nat is on Clint's lap and they're all crammed in like sardines. It's good though, to have everyone there like old times. Steve had let Buck, or more precisely all the emotional turmoil his presence had stirred, get in the way of this. While the Soldier had only gotten closer with the mechanic's friends, Steve had occasionally felt uncomfortably distant.

It wasn't for their lack of trying and of course he'd had his little moments with Clint and Win and occasionally the others. His flashbacks and anxiety had proved a deterrent to him being as involved as he once was. He didn't want them to have to shoulder his emotional burdens or suffer his mood swings so he quietly withdrew a little at a time, a thing he hadn't fully grasped he had done until this moment. 

Steve had always let (maybe "let" was the wrong word, implying it was solely his choice) the fallout from Brock affect him, but he'd had the Jack part mostly locked away in a neat little dusty box. Or maybe it was a suitcase. It was never to be opened more than a crack, especially after his first few months in Claptrap. Steve hadn't actively sought out memories of the scarred man until his recent time at the yard, but he realizes the subconscious weight of their strange, stunted relationship and his death - the denial, confusion and fear it engendered towards his growing emotional attachment to Buck - had started to tug at him a while ago. 

As soon as he had any inkling, even if it wasn't conscious, he had feelings for the Soldier and vice versa the box (suitcase) had started to pop open more frequently. The night at the pub with Clint had busted a latch. _Stevie_, he'd heard Jack say, voice sputtering and wet with his own blood. His time with Buck before the reavertown had blown the lid clean off. 

Being in love with Win had been so easy by comparison to his terrifying realization, as the big man looked up at him from the bed, that he had fallen so utterly for the Soldier. There was nothing about her that reminded him of the past and the hurt, fear and loss it held; when he looked at her, he'd thought only of the future. Maybe that's why he'd resented her rejection so much - she was like the glass wall, beautiful, bright and strong, keeping all the rough blowing things outside where he'd never need to feel their sting or clean up their mess. But it wasn't her job to shelter him, least of all from himself, to allow him to pretend the past didn't happen.

Speaking of men from the past, and wanting to be in Win's future, Luis is here too. He doesn't own a chair - or anything but the clothes on his back - and he sits on Buck's small trunk. Steve supposes it's fine, even though he still feels some kind of way when the young man and the Soldier accidentally catch eyes and give each other a little smile. Being friendly isn't a crime, the blonde reminds himself. Why does he have to be so good looking though?

Luis has only a few inches on him, but is probably thirty five pounds heavier and really fit. His skin is a gorgeous shade and flawless, unlike Steve's splotchy weak-tea-stain tan and irregular sunburns, marred with oblong freckles, worry lines and copious scars. It should be illegal to look as good as Luis does right now, especially in an apocalypse. 

**We should cut his face,** the angry, impetuous voice whispers, finally offering input after hours of silence. It was apparently back on team Buck, and all bets were off. 

The green eyed man pops his sweatshirt off, revealing a tight black undershirt. He's clearly put lotion on his tattoos, because the colors look sharp and fresh, making his biceps seem even more impressive. Steve notices Win noticing. The blonde mostly feels proud of himself. His best friend deserves to, at the least, get herself some and if it goes anywhere else, more power to them. He can't lie he's also feeling more than a little inadequate. It's not lost on him that two different people he'd been in love with both find the same person physically appealing. He remembers Buck _had said_ finding him **attractive** wasn't the same as being attracted to him. So he **did** find him attractive... He supposes you'd need to not have eyes to not notice him.

**Ooo! We could gouge his pretty eyes out!** bullheaded offers. 

There's a surprise guest too - Coulson, though unbeknownst to the others, Steve had invited him. He's Greta's plus one at most things after she apologized about the whole _knife to the throat thing_ at the reavertown. It had put a damper on their sex life, after all, and the woman had needs. Samir was _getting too up there to get it up there_ \- as she'd so eloquently put it while she and the mechanic sorted parts in the yard - so their visits were for board games and not much else at this point. She'd pissed off enough of her other lovers, as Greta did and said whatever the fuck she wanted whenever the fuck she wanted, that the ex ops assistant won by default. Or maybe seeing Phil murder cannibals and betray Fury was like a strange courting ritual for them. 

"What's that about?" Nat asked, arching one ginger eyebrow as she gestured from the older woman to Phil.

"This is the post-apocalypse and good D is hard to find." Greta repeats the redhead's words from the standoff with Nick. Phil's severe face turns a bit pink.

"High five on laying the good D!" Clint offers a raised hand to Coulson which he meekly slaps. 

"What is _laying the good D_?" Buck questions. It's met with laughter from some of the group. 

"I'll tell you when you're older," Luis grins devilishly at the Soldier, making his face even more appealing.

**We could kick his teeth in.**

Buck's face scrunches. "I was most likely born in the 1960s." 

"He has a point, man, he has a point. I think you're gonna halfta tell'em now," the archer directs, almost chuckling.

"Ahhhhhhhhh I don't know," the young man says sheepishly, running his fingers back through his thick, glossy ringlets, still attractively tousled from removing his overshirt. 

**We could shave him while he sleeps and glue it to his back.**

"D means dick." Win attempts to spare Luis. 

"The shortened version of Richard?" The Soldier questions. There was a man in Claptrap who had explained the concept when Buck became confused at people calling him two different names. 

"Your willy. Your weiner," Clint responds. 

"Your trouser snake. Your tickle stick," Greta chimes in. 

"Your peepee. Your dingus." Nat makes a fist, sticks out her pointer and wiggles it. 

"Your penis," Coulson adds flatly.

"Oh! Your...cock." 

The Soldier sounds obviously proud he knew that one and everyone laughs, which he likes. He had figured it out from context clues when Steve said it during sexual activity. _I love to watch you stroke your cock,_ he had breathed, eyeing Buck's hand moving on himself as his did the same inside his pants. The blonde had turned red and shy after, embarrassed he had said it (not that it had stopped him from finishing hard minutes later after he watched the brunette do the same). There was no shame from him this morning though, as the little mechanic whispered into his ear. The Soldier cannot believe how stimulating it was to hear him speak that way, especially with such confidence. 

"Why would you...lay your cock somewhere?" he asks, brow furrowed. 

He has an unpleasant memory of being ordered to place his genitals on the edge of a metal table and being struck. That was when he had finally allowed the beast out on the man who swung the rod. It was more than the pain. It was the indefinable violation of his body - and the obvious pleasure the man took in it - he could not stomach. He had torn the man's cock off first, a massive scrap of his uniform pants and undergarments tearing away with it. He had grabbed the screaming man by both shoulders and pulled until he ripped down the middle. The Soldier did not even drink - he wanted nothing more from that person. 

"For Chrissake, it means they have a nice cock and they fuck you really well," Greta barks. 

"Oooh." 

The others laugh at that too, at his surprised, almost scandalized tone. Except Steve. Who looks the slightest bit uncomfortable, like he's bracing for Buck's further response. Steve had fucked him. But also not fucked him. He decides he should not comment on either. 

After the Soldier wins his third round of poker, Clint demands he be excluded and the others begrudgingly agree. The bigger man scowls and drums his metal fingers on the table during the next game - as he glares at the archer - and causes quite the racket on the echoing formica and chrome undercarriage. Steve knows he shouldn't find his little tantrums adorable, and he never encourages or enables them (usually choosing the _ignore the child when they act out_ method), but fuck it's cute. When Natasha does it back mockingly with her always-perfectly-manicured-despite-the-fucking-apocalypse nails, Buck's eyes narrow further while they stare each other down. 

"_Pouting_," Win whispers to the big man as she grins and taps his silver hand with the reusable straw she's been sipping her ice tea with. 

"Call the wahmbulance," he says grouchily. It makes her laugh loud. He looks first surprised, then pleased. His hand stills. Nat stops. 

It amazes Steve the things the Soldier remembers. How many months had it been since Win had made that crack to him, as he sulked in his mask on the sleeping bag? It makes the blonde wonder how much he'll recall from the facility or about his "siblings," like how to wake them. Certainly he was not intentionally taught such things, but Steve knew Buck only needed to see or hear a thing once. Just as the Soldier recalled so much about Zola's serums and his disenfranchisement from the Winter Soldier project based only on being present for a brief conversation, certainly his handlers had done and said many things in front of him (as if he were an object and not a person) that he would vividly remember. 

"I'll sit out this round too," Steve says. "Why don't you let Luis have your chair and you come over here?" He gestures to his boyfriend who happily obliges. Buck surprisingly plops his bottom on Steve's lap, emulating Nat's position on Clint except looping a long arm around Steve's shoulders. The blonde smiles up at him, tilting his head far back, and the Soldier takes it as an invitation to lean in and kiss him. It's not short or soft and gets a few _oooooos_ from their audience. Never one to be outdone, and probably enjoying the view, Nat lays an intense liplock on Clint. 

"Man, is this turning into an orgy or a swingers' party? Either way I'm in," Greta comments, lightly elbowing Phil before grabbing him. He makes an almost frightened squeak as she crams their mouths together. 

Win and Luis get very still, nervously staring straight ahead. After a few seconds she clears her throat and starts loudly shuffling the deck. That seems to bring people back to the task at hand. Steve gives it all of two minutes before he has to ask the bigger man to move to the floor because his legs are going numb. He whispers it too softly for the others to hear, as he liked doing lately. It was their own private special little thing - even when it was about something mundane - and another acknowledgement he was impressed with and accepting of Buck's differences.

The brunette settles between his legs, leans his shoulders and head against Steve. His bent arms come to rest along the tops of Steve's thighs. The blonde in turn hunches a bit forward to loop his arms loosely around the Soldier's neck. The mechanic can't seem to touch him enough after this morning, his previous discomfort with pda flying right out the window. Emboldened by their closeness, he works up the nerve to finally say his piece. 

"I blew up the water pump on purpose."

All the laughter and talking and rustling of cards stops. Every set of eyes turn to him. Win starts to chew him out in Cantonese while Greta says he's even crazier than she thought. Clint is insisting they go to group therapy, which Nat is loudly refusing. Luis is saying something about him having problems and if he wants to act out, punching people is a lot less destructive. Steve keeps trying to speak and getting cut off. Buck looks up at him with immense concern, head bent back, crown pushed hard to Steve's sternum. 

"Hey!" Phil shouts, quieting them all. "He has a plan." They all look at him, including Steve. "Fury's getting a truck and supplies together for the kid and a team of his choosing to go scavenge three new pumps. Steve must want to take you somewhere he doesn't want Nick to know about, so he sabotaged the pump as an excuse to go on a run. And he invited me here, to listen to the little speech he probably has prepared, because he thinks Fury will let me be his eyes on this trip instead of sending some other ex ops to keep you all in line." 

They look to Steve, who nods.

"That's your fatal flaw," Phil continues, all eyes flicking back to his end of the table. "He caught me lying for Buck before. He won't trust me now, or Natasha, to report back to him honestly." 

"I know that." Steve smiles. It's like the others are watching a tennis match, silently moving their eyes side to side. 

"Then what's your big idea?" 

Group eye flick back to Phil. 

"Convince Hill." 

Group eye flick back to Steve. 

"Hill! Ha! That's his right hand woman. There's no way she'll go for it." 

Group eye flick. 

"She trusts you. And she has a thing for you." 

Group eye flick, except Greta, who watches Phil.

"That's preposterous." 

Eye flick.

"I notice those things. I notice _everything._" Steve thinks of the careful way he'd assessed Jack, his minute changes in expression and body language when the blonde was around.

"Except Buck having a raging crush on you," Clint retorts.

"Which you so helpfully pointed out at the time was denial. Which isn't the same as not noticing." 

"Okay, fair point, but what's this all about, Stevie?"

"Buck's other family," Steve responds. The crown of the Soldier's head pushes harder against his chest. He can feel the brunette boring holes in him with his eyes, even if he isn't looking back at him. 

"You mean, like, his parents? Wouldn't they be..." Nat trails off.

"No, his _other_ other family. The Winter Soldiers. I know where they are. Brock took me there. I just...didn't realize until recently that the weapons he talked about inside the place were people. I never went in, but he said they were non-operational and one was missing. I think he didn't understand how to control the others. They're just sort of...blank without instructions."

"And you want us to what? Instruct them?" Greta asks.

"Yes. Keep them out of the wrong hands. Protect this place, and Buck, from Crossbones."

"Keep them as slaves!" Buck sits up abruptly, his face twisted with hurt and anger.

"No! I mean I guess sort of. But only at first. We could wake them up, one at a time. Take the control chip out. Have the others all ordered to restrain them, protect us from them. We could feed them a whole bunch, until they can think, and then we could help them. Help them remember who they were." Steve hopes the naked sincerity of his voice convinces the Soldier. He means every word. 

"But what happened to Winter was a fluke." Luis stands, agitated. "No one _woke him up_. It was an accident. And everything that followed for him was random. You can't guarantee the same results just by playing at duplicating them. He was alone a long time with an endless stream of bad guys to feed on. We don't have that for them, unless you plan on starting to take and keep prisoners. Plus, Buck doesn't really remember who he was. Just his name and a few other little things. Who says they'll remember anything? That any of who they were before is left?" 

He turns his green eyes apologetically to Buck and then back to Steve. "I know you want to think of them like you think of him, like a damaged person that just needs your help to become whole, but you didn't see him how he was before. And even the worst thing I knew him as was probably a far cry from the animal that he was to begin with. He had already been out in the world for a long time. He'd already learned so much and started to develop a personality, some kind of...ethics, on his own, on the road where he wasn't _ endangering an entire town of defenseless people_. We can't force morality on them. We wouldn't even know where to begin." 

"He's right. I see the benefit of having them under our control, having them protect Claptrap. But we don't know who else knows the codes to control them. Maybe even Nick knows. Or this Crossbones guy. They could say a few words and suddenly our protectors are our killers," Nat adds.

"Even in the best case scenario, even where we can keep them fully fed and have the controlled ones protect us from the awake one, then the awake ones help with the newly awake... Even if we can help them develop some kind of self, we don't know that that self will be a good person. Just because Buck is, doesn't mean they will be. You have no idea who these people were before. They could be serial killers for all you know. Sadists. Rapists. They could play us, pretend to be safe like him and then turn on us. Use the commands to control any others that aren't free. You could be giving a super soldier nut bag a small army of other super soldiers to control. Do you really want to be responsible for unleashing something like that into the world?" Greta questions. 

"They're people. _They're his people_. They deserve a chance to have lives, real lives. Friends. Lovers. And think of all the good that they could do, once they have fully formed personalities and free will. They could go wherever they wanted, protect their own settlements, or team up and take out whole armies of marauders and reavers. They could help build a much better world than the one we have now." 

Buck thinks he has never loved Steve so much as in that moment. 

Win stands, crosses to Buck, puts her hand on his shoulder. "I know what it is like to be the only one in a group of people who are not like you, who cannot really understand what it is to be where you are from or to think the way you think. Buck has us, but it is not the same. He deserves to have others of his kind, who understand his experience. I think, if this is what Buck wants, then we should help them." 

The others go quiet as the Soldier smiles up at her, puts his hand over hers. He looks around the room at his friends one by one, then at Steve. "I want to help them."


	50. Pave paradise and put up a parking lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claptrap blossoms as the Green Place wilts.

Nick won't let Steve's (not so) little excursion move forward until the current runners return. There are multiple trucks at the Green Place, sent by Fury while Buck was still...._heartbroken?_ The ex ops leader settles on _not up to resuming his duties_, preferring not to think about the Soldier as literally sick with loneliness while Steve was gone. That was making him too human, something he's still not overtly willing to do. The leader had moments of pity, even empathy, for the Soldier as he stared - forlorn - at the mechanic on the drone feed, remembering checking his own wife's social media again and again after they separated.

Greta all but told the bald man to fuck himself when he showed up at her place a few days after their stand off at Steve's. He'd asked her to take point on the run team to clean out the Greenies' community. _Drive your own damn truck. Right off a cliff,_ she'd huffed before slamming her door in his face. He'd sent a half dozen of his old crew with the scavengers instead, the most experienced put in charge as they had been before the Soldier's brief stint in command. 

The Green Place was a gold mine of equipment and supplies, especially with so few survivors to lay claim to it. There were no water pumps, inconveniently - the whole _carrying water with a bucket thing_ was part of their spiritual enlightenment through hard work hokum. The community was designed to hold less than a fifth of the population of Claptrap at their peak - their primary water sources had been hand-dug wells with old fashioned ropes and pulleys supplemented with gray water recycling and rain barrels when the climate had been less unforgiving (years before the collapse). It never rained in this area now - the best they could hope for was dew occasionally, which the Claptrappers had collected religiously before they'd tapped the aquifer. Truth be told, he wasn't sure how much longer the Greenies would have lasted - the wells on the property were largely dry now, something they'd never admitted to their trading partners. 

Fury had someone take pictures of what was left with a digital camera - he could upload the photos to his laptop, his office one of the few places with constant power to charge such things - after they'd taken the obvious stuff on the first run. He showed what was still there to the mechanic, letting him pick what was most useful to bring back on the second trip. Well, after he'd stopped griping about Fury letting Buck go on _every run_. The blonde had a lot of half-assed reasons why that wasn't okay, which Nick ignored. It was almost, _almost_, touching the kid was so worried about the monster's safety. What could hurt him after all? The bald man would have that question answered painfully fast. 

This run, the third and final trip to the Green Place, he'd sent the crews to pick the place clean. The people of Claptrap had suffered quite a blow at the hands of the reavers. Stuff wouldn't fill the void of those who had lost loved ones but it still went a long way as a distraction for the general public. Plus, the Greenies would get first dibs when the caravan came back, picking out any of their own possessions they'd needed to leave behind or important items from their deceased friends and loved ones. 

Things that were useful to ration or keep for public works would be moved to locked storage or integrated into public spaces - electric overhead lighting fixtures, candles, technical books, solar equipment parts, batteries, flashlights, any type of fuel or weapon (though the peaceniks had painfully few - the poor bastards - they were still finding ones from the Burners), exterior paint, furniture for common areas, various boxes of screws, bolts and nails, gardening tools, non-perishable food, cleaning supplies, building materials, medical supplies. 

The rest would go to a free market in and around the public pavilion (except the best tools, which would be set aside for Steve to look through first if the difficult little prick ever dragged his skinny ass back from the yard). Personal effects and household goods of all kinds - dishes, clothing, bedding, trinkets and knickknacks, musical instruments, art supplies and more - would be on display. There was a lottery to decide which group people would be in. Numbered one to ten, each was a cluster of about thirty to avoid chaos and arguing in the limited space. Nick had everyone pulled from trasher duty, plus the next rotation, to help with the sort and set up when the trucks returned. They'd also brought back newer finds from the yard to bolster the selection when it would inevitably dwindle later in the day. 

The market would be followed by the pièce de ré·sis·tance, a movie screening. Sure, there were viewing devices in Claptrap - laptops, cell phones, small-scale hologram projectors, tablets and an elderly TV/DVD combo in a common area with a battered pile of discs - but power was very limited. A few had solar-optional devices, but they were inconsistent and the feature was intended as a back up to electric, not the primary source to keep it running. Limited power meant very little charging of devices - and the modern products didn't take any sort of removable, non-rechargeable battery like older electronics - so they were largely useless without someplace to consistently plug in. Even the common tv was kept to a strict, limited schedule, viewers on a rotation just like the baths. 

The Greenies had an old projector, multiple films in dented canisters and a massive, white drop screen to watch it on. They'd had ample solar for their tiny (and mostly device free because of pre-collapse retreat rules) community. Movie night was a team building activity to watch a classic film and discuss if it was "problematic" in some way. Fury was less than entertained at the notion when Gurminder explained it to him. Still, it was a pity the Burners had destroyed anything they found offensive (read: featuring not white people). The whole place would be ashes soon enough - after it was stripped, Nick had ordered the shells of the buildings burned at dusk, when both the smoke and fire would be least noticable in the distance. They'd also dynamited large sections of the wall, just to be sure it couldn't be used as a stronghold. It wouldn't do to have more troublemakers setting up shop so close to them in the remnants of the community. 

Steve and Win were tasked with heading a crew, including her teenage students, to build rigging for hanging the screen and a platform for the projector. They started the morning of the trucks' return, as soon as they had proper measurements, using a blank section of the hillside as a natural amphitheater to give everyone a clear view. The trasher crews started sorting the haul with the Greenies help. After a bit Gurminder had gathered a small box of items - things from friends, a few personal possessions he'd squirreled away after the take over. They included his wife's favorite sari, stuffed in a garbage bag and buried behind his previous residence. He'd offered to go on the run to retrieve it, to say goodbye to his former home, to watch their shared dream turn to smoke and drift away much as she had years before. Nick had refused but did instruct someone to dig up the fabric and bring it back. 

Gurminder also filled a bag with clothes and a pair of boots that had belonged to Randall, a young, hiply dressed professional on a business retreat at the GP when it had all went to hell. His friend, now gone, had similar proportions to Buck. Gurminder blocked out thinking about his death as he screamed on the burning wooden beams, and chose to focus on what a giving, friendly person and hopeless romantic he had been. Randy would appreciate the doctor's planned gesture. He found the Soldier helping the others with the framing, scampering up it with no harness to run more rigging to a certain section. He climbed down from his precarious, one-armed hang at the top after seeing the psychiatrist waving below. The older man was more than a little shocked when the brunette set the bag down, seconds after Gurminder had finished explaining its contents, and hugged him. He even picked the smaller man a bit off the ground. 

The big man had been to see him - both with and without Steve - several times in the last few days. He mentioned when he was alone that he was very nervous after some of the others had talked about going to the movie as a "date night." His conception of what that meant was limited, but he gleaned it was a romantic courting ritual and entailed "getting spiffy." Oh that Clint Barton, what an eloquent man (he had been seeing the doctor too; work to come to grips with his long-term abuse of alcohol, pre-dating even the plague, had started after the fight with Steve in the pub). The Soldier was quite fixated on what he would wear for his "date," as he only had a few ragged, scavenged things and no one was a good size match to borrow from. As was so often the case, he wanted to impress Steve. 

Steve. He was so difficult to reach. Which of course only made him more interesting, his sly evasiveness and wit endearing him to the older man. The blonde had shocked the doctor when he showed up with the Soldier, had asked Gurminder to facilitate him telling Buck about his experience as a prisoner with the ex ops soldier he called Brock. Specifically, he'd wanted to talk about a man named Jack, how together they'd murdered his captor and all his top lieutenants, but at the expense of the other man's life. Steve had already told Buck the basics but said they'd both been...a bit out of it. The doctor was unsure what that meant and didn't pry. He was impressed with the insight the mechanic had about his former friendship (relationship?) with the explosives expert and how it tied into his current situation with Buck. He resists letting any quotes slip about the fear of loss leading to the dark side, but smiles a bit internally thinking about going to see the classic film at a festival with his father as a young child. They'd owned a copy but the presence of Billy Dee Williams got it torched by the Burners. 

Gurminder mostly listened, tried not to look shocked (or impressed) about the IED, just added commentary or asked questions when needed to guide the discussion between the two men. Steve apologized to Buck for so many things, but he's the most sorry he had taken so long to clarify that Brock was dead. That subject had vexed the Soldier and came up a lot in his appointments. Should he leave Claptrap to find this man? Should he bring Steve back his head, his phallus, maybe both? Convincing him that body part offerings wouldn't heal the mechanic's trauma wasn't easy. The brunette had gotten the idea from a book about the Bible of all places, specifically a chapter on John the Baptist. Reminding the Soldier his presence here was important - and a wild goose chase (an expression he'd needed to explain) to find the culprit could take him away from the blonde for months or even years - did the trick. It turned out the man had already gotten his justice.

The psychiatrist had taken an instant liking to Buck - how guileless, curious and straight-forward he was - and felt protective of his almost childlike innocence and gaping need for affection. As such, he had probably discouraged his romance with the mechanic a bit more than he should have. Despite enjoying the blonde's intellect and sense of humor, he could sense the emotional typhoon constantly blowing around inside the petite man and didn't want to see his new friend (and yes, he could easily admit Buck was that as much as he was his patient, even if that wasn't entirely professional) swept away when it made landfall. Only in their group session did the intense affection the blonde had for the Soldier, and the depth of their connection with one another, become clear. Gurminder forged a resolution to help advance their relationship rather than stand in the way. 

"Some options for date night," the psychiatrist had said with a smile, pressing the bag of Randy's things into Buck's hands a few days later.

After they'd finished hanging the screen, getting the projector mounted and power ran, Win and Buck headed to the mechanic's shanty while Steve met with Nick. She had an idea about how to help the Soldier feel more confident for date night; with him as a look out she stole every picture of a guy that was even semi-clothed from Steve's spank bank. The welder knew him just as well as he knew her and had stumbled across it before. For what it was worth, only a few of the women in the pile are Asian (and none of the papers are streaked with anything). It was nice to know he'd just been attracted to her, not her "type" or some preconceived notion of who she was. If anything, someone would be hard pressed to even draw similarities between the people in the saved magazine photos - they're different races, body types, ages and styled differently. 

The welder smuggled them back to her place for the pair to pour over along with his bag from Gurminder. Buck likes a couple photos in particular, one of which surprises Win though she isn't sure why. They pick up a few things at the market to spruce themselves up with. The two of them ended up via lottery in a group with Nat, Greta, Wanda, Simon and Violet but none of the other usual suspects. 

"This bazaar is bizarre," Nat whispers to the welder. "We're just combing through a bunch of dead people's stuff. This feels like a graveyard of hippie ideals being picked over by the vultures of a police state." 

"Everything left to scavenge is dead people's stuff, dollface," Greta retorts, eyeballing an old man's fishing vest with lots of useful pockets. "And some of us old buzzards aren't afraid to say _fuck the man_ when he stomps up to our door in his jackboots with his stupid fucking eye patch..." She trails off when she finds a magnum condom in one pocket of the garment. "What a waste!" she muses of the vest's deceased owner as she puts it on. 

Buck is utterly perplexed looking over all the items. There are so many things he does not even understand the purpose of. He had no remembered experience of what a home was pre-dating the chaos of this new world. His experience of houses before was the frantic dark intrusion of his missions, often into the palaces, mansions and corporate buildings of the rich and powerful. In addition he was suspicious of something so easily gained, not through fighting or hard searching or trade. What had he done to deserve these people's things? 

He thinks of Gurminder saying Buck had liberated him from bondage. It makes him feel a tiny bit better, but not much. The Soldier had never helped anyone for profit or gain or even gratitude. Still, it did seem his actions had some small role to play in his rewards - his new clothes, his home, his friends, his _relationship_ \- and if he can use any of the objects to enhance those things, he supposes it is acceptable. He wants Steve to want him - to look at him and be a fraction as attracted, as awestruck, as Buck is when he looks at the little mechanic - and for the blonde to be sure he has made a good choice in a mate. To his mind the smaller man, beautiful and brilliant, could have anyone.

The Soldier does not think twice about going back to Win's to get ready with several of the women. Sexual predilections aside, gender matters as much to him as eye color or shoe size in evaluating behavior. He does not know how this resembles old fashioned, sex segregated social rituals. None of them bring it up - they hadn't meant for it to happen either, everyone intending to get ready at their own place, mostly with their own significant other. But there is something pleasant about the waiting and anticipation to see Steve. It fills Buck's stomach with a fluttery feeling and his chest with the most pleasant tension, far different than the emptiness he had felt there a few short days before.


	51. Bette Davis eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get ready for movie night.

Luis trims Steve's hair and beard as Clint shaves. They'd ended up in the same market group, running into Buck and the others as they left, and wandered back to the mechanic's place after finding out their "dates" would all be getting ready at Win's house. Coulson - who had also been in their lottery group and invited back to the blonde's - is nowhere to be found. After Steve's satisfied with his new look, which he begrudgingly admits is a vast improvement, he helps the green-eyed man clean up the back of the wide mohawk he'd given himself. His big curls lay beautifully along the center of his forehead and the back of his neck. 

"Fuck you're even hotter now!" Clint groans after they're done. "Stay away from my wife, seriously. I'd hate to have to Sheriff of Nottingham you." 

Luis is wearing fitted olive green joggers with lots of zipper adornments around the upper legs - found at the market - and his black, grey and white high top sneakers (as cleaned up as they can get). He'd also picked up a thin, sleeveless white t-shirt and black mesh vest with a hood to complete his ensemble. Steve is only vaguely envious as he notices how good everything hangs on him, how his tattoos - in addition to being in plain view on his toned arms - peak through the more see-through parts of the top over his chest and shoulders. He looks stylish and effortlessly cool, both things Steve would never describe himself as.

"He's a hundred percent going to ask you to make out with him in front of her at some point now," the mechanic chuckles. 

"Accurate," the archer nods, "but like, make yourself scarce after. You cannot, I repeat cannot, join us." 

The archer has on gray plaid dress slacks that fit incredibly well - tucked into his usual pair of mid-calf black combat boots (newly polished) - and a pair of Steve's lesser used stretchy black suspenders. His white button down is tucked in, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His vibe is punk rock office worker and Steve admits its a good look for him. The blonde had even taken in the shirt for him quick, since something that accommodated his big arms, chest and shoulders was way too large in the waist. 

"Doesn't that bother you, her asking you to do that?" Luis muses. Steve wants to take it some kind of way, but the tone of the man's voice is good humored enough. "It's not like you go both ways, like blondey over here. Wait, is _go both ways_ offensive?" 

Steve shrugs, grins. "I'll allow it." 

His attraction to all genders was about the same, so he was less bothered by comments like that or even being called "half gay" than some bi people he knew. In fact some in the queer community didn't even like him to say "bi," when people still debated such things pre-collapse. Steve had always held it meant attraction to more than one gender and didn't exclude anyone. He didn't call himself pan (even though he didn't care if others did) because the whole _hearts not parts_ comments a lot of people threw around about the orientation sort of bothered him. As if it was somehow bad to admit you were physically attracted to someone instead of solely into their personality. 

The blonde was perfectly happy admitting a portion of what he liked about other people _was their parts,_ thank you very much, regardless of what those parts may be. Eyes, lips, bottoms, pecs, breasts, long lean legs, thick, curvy thighs, penises, vaginas...They were all nice to behold or think about and didn't diminish his interest in the actual person they were attached to. He can't help but think about Buck's parts, about how often he's seen and touched them lately. About how eagerly the brunette has reciprocated. They're like bunnies after the morning he'd got back from the yard. 

Last night, for instance. In a surprising display of unabashed initiative, Buck had pulled Steve on top to straddle his stomach as the big man stretched out on his back in their bed. They were both already naked and the brunette had easy access to stroke the mechanic's cock the way he knew he liked best. He ran his metal fingers everywhere else - stopping randomly to squeeze just hard enough at the blonde's nipples, his sack, the perfect pleasure-pain making Steve moan louder - as the flesh hand insistently performed the same incredible motion between his thighs over and over. 

Buck had never broken eye contact even once as he watched Steve slowly fall apart under his ministrations. Then he'd cupped the smaller man's right ass cheek tight, used his grip to silently urge the mechanic to lift his hips a bit, to rock them forward repeatedly. Steve realized at some point, other than the pointer finger curling rhythmically over his head and the pad of the thumb running under it, the Soldier wasn't moving his hand anymore. His eyes glowed brighter, finally leaving Steve's, trailing down. Buck moaned as he watched the smaller man fuck the tight, wet circle of his hand. His gaze returned to the mechanic's with a hot ferocity. The realization of what Buck was thinking about Steve doing to him, _what he'd wanted the mechanic to think about doing to him_ as he thrusted on top of him, made Steve cum - sudden and hard - onto the Soldier's chest. 

"Can you honestly tell me you've never asked two girls to kiss?" Clint demands of Luis, pulling the blonde from his sexy thoughts. 

Thank God, his instant embarrassment fades his semi-erection immediately. His new pants were a bit tight and wouldn't leave much to the imagination. Clint had loudly insisted, as the archer stuffed the pants into his hands at the bazaar, _you have an ass, now show it._ They probably belonged to a teenage girl judging from the juniors sizing - which makes his chubby feel even more inappropriate - but he'd still had to roll them at the bottom because of the length. That had made him sigh a bit considering he was _25 fucking years old_. 

"Nah. Girls where I grew up would tell me to go fuck myself, even if they were into chicas." 

"You never watched _lesbian_ porn?" The blonde makes air quotes at the L word, since there was clearly not a single actual daughter of Sappho in any of the "girl on girl" adult movies he'd seen. 

Luis grins guiltily. "Okay, okay, I definitely mainlined a lot of that back in the day. It's _so hot_ seeing women together. I would never creep on girlfriends actually kissing in public though."

"It's the same for women who like men," the mechanic replies. "As Nat says, what's better than one hot guy? Two hot guys. Preferably making out." 

"Yeah, but how is she not jealous when he does it? Or like..." he turns to Clint, "worried you'll get into it? Don't you ever, like, feel maybe you're not enough on your own to keep her interested?" Luis is choosing his words carefully, tone clearly not intended to offend. 

"Oh, I see where this is going! You're worried Win liked our little stunt at the cafeteria a bit too much!" Clint elbows him. 

"Maybe," Luis pouts.

"Look, I was that dick frat guy that pressured girls to kiss all the time at parties, out at bars. This is for sure karma. Plus if it gets Nat turned on what's the harm? She knows it doesn't do anything for me. It's not like she'd ask me to fuck a dude, not in a serious way." Clint, after his fifth failed attempt, yields to Steve tying his narrow black tie. "And I'm super comfortable with myself as Stevie can attest. If someone wants to think I'm secretly bi or gay, or pussy whipped, let 'em. I mean, my wife is the the most awesome, smartest and definitely _most hottest_ woman on earth. And I don't even mean that last bit figuratively since, sadly, most of the women are dead." 

Steve slaps the archer lightly upside the head at that last comment, making Luis chuckle.

"I don't think you need to worry about Win asking you to make out with Clint," Steve reassures Luis with a grin.

"Okay, but if she does want me to kiss a guy, do me one solid Steve and take one for the team. Because I'm absolutely not making out with Winter or... blech...Phil." The green-eyed man shudders. "And you look pretty good right now, blondey," Luis reassures, catching Steve nervously surveying himself in the mirror again. 

The mechanic had tried not to fret too much about what to wear, but when Clint had started aggressively picking things out for him - mostly female-coded because they looked the right size - at the market he got the hint that his wardrobe fell short. Steve had worn "women's" clothing a lot over his life, especially post-collapse when he couldn't exactly run to the store. There was so much more selection. He wasn't in the slightest offended to be thought of as "like a girl" because - as he'd told people plenty of times when they'd hurled the comment as an insult - there's nothing wrong with being a girl.

He'd settled on an incredibly soft, thin tawny sweater probably owned by a classy female banker to go with his maroon jeans. He'd even managed to find some brown dressy leather sneakers in his size. The blonde told himself all three items were practical - the jeans were heavy enough for night weather, the sweater comfortable to wear around the house and the shoes better for running than his clunky dilapidated boots. 

The whole walk to the makeshift drive in, Steve chastises himself for getting so nervous, feeling so self-conscious about his appearance. Maybe he should have shaved. Maybe his outfit is ridiculous in this place (though he would have looked perfectly at home working at a laptop in a coffee shop back in Brooklyn). It's just a bunch of the same people he eats and works with every day, sitting around on blankets on some scrub grass watching an animated kid flick. Yes, Buck will be there, but so what? They'd already seen each other naked, for chrissakes! What did he have to prove? It's not _really a date_ anyway and certainly the Soldier wouldn't even know what the others had meant when they'd joked it was. Or so he'd thought until he sees him waiting in the designated meeting spot. 

Buck has on narrow black slacks, desert style gray suede ankle boots, a lilac, black and gray pinstriped dress shirt and a turquoise velvet blazer. Everything fits like it was tailor made for him and the colors compliment his complexion and lavender lips, bring out his eyes. His eyes! They're rimmed expertly with black kohl, smudged the smallest amount, making the light irises pop even more. It gives him a sultry, dangerous look. The dark brunette hair is slicked back away from his high forehead and for a moment the resemblance to Jack is uncanny. Steve gets pink and swallows hard when the big man waves. 

Luis elbows him and chuckles, but doesn't fair much better when he sees Win. He'd nervously asked if she wanted to sit with him at the movie that morning at breakfast. She'd shrugged non-chalantly, then said a simple _sure_. The girl had game. Now she's sporting an intense blue cat eye and wearing what was probably a teenage boy's navy blue church suit. It hugs her slender body perfectly and there's nothing underneath the jacket but a black lace tank top, the coat falling just the right way to hide the important bits. 

"Uh, wow, you look...wow," Luis stammers as she approaches. 

"I know," she grins, running a hand over her freshly shorn buzzcut, making the jacket open just a bit further.

Clint, on the other hand, is at no loss for words. "Oh myfucking gooooddddd baby! You're gonna give a man a heart attack!" he coos, sliding up to Nat in her skintight black and silver mini dress. He puts his big hands on her hips, kisses her neck when she moves her face to avoid his mouth, smirking as she feigns annoyance. 

Her lips are red, ample milky cleavage and curvy legs exposed. "If you're good," she says in her smokey voice after he steps back, looking him over with thinly veiled appreciation, "you can take it off me with your teeth later." Her tone is just indifferent enough to get him going even worse.

"Yes, ma'am," the archer practically purrs. 

Suddenly Phil strolls out of nowhere to Greta with an honest to God bouquet of flowers he must have spent a few hours picking from around the settlement and the ag houses. Every jaw drops and a rare quiet settles over their friend group. Even the little girls - Violet, Alicia and Silence (as Buck had taken to calling the mute girl) say nothing as their adult caretakers look on. The older woman - in her least stained jeans, an oversized flannel and the fishing vest - let's how shocked and touched she is glimmer across her face for only a moment before calmly offering the highest praise she'll ever give the man.

"Not too shabby, Coulson."

Steve can barely even talk to Buck - just stammering out a hello, red-cheeked - as they get settled on the blanket he'd brought. Fuck, he looks amazing and he'd clearly put in a lot of effort. The blonde alternates between staring and not being able to look at him. He can't picture any of his friends styling him this way - it's not to any of their taste, even if they liked the end result - so he must have dressed himself. Despite the modern cut, there's something vaguely 1980s about the whole ensemble, especially the shirt unbuttoned a bit low at the top and jacket sleeves rolled up a third. Was this how Buck dressed before he was a Winter Soldier? Did he go out? Date? Fall in love?

When the bigger man fixes him with those dark rimmed eyes - irises now periwinkle - and gives him a brilliant smile, Steve forgets everything, even to breath.


	52. Happily ever after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night starts with a trigger and ends with a bang.

Steve chews his lip as the twilight slowly fades, the first stars appearing overhead right before the projector finally comes to life. Virtually everyone around them is already cuddling, even Greta and Phil (his head on her shoulder), but the blonde sits stiff and nervous a foot and a half away from the Soldier. As the ancient previews flicker up on the screen, a few couples start making out. The memory of _what was_ is a powerful aphrodisiac. Even Simon and Wanda, half wrapped in a blanket, are locking lips. It should be funny, cute even, but it makes something in Steve knot up. He should be doing that, or at least the light version - they certainly had no qualms about being all over each other in private - but the mechanic doesn't know how to act out this ritual of normalcy. It feels false somehow, playing pretend.

Muriel (who's still largely with it) and her roommate, Sarafin are watching Violet. Silence and Alicia are incredibly entertained by the smaller girl and are playing a vigorous game of peek-a-boo, leaving her parents to their activities. Steve wishes he could also hide his face. He's red, anxious, twitching. Suddenly he's very aware there are people _behind him_, then all around in the dark when the last preview cuts off. His stomach twists - it's suddenly like the nights on the ground with the dregs at the caravan, not knowing who it was he felt so near, if they were reaching for him. There's a vaguely familiar shape nearby, big shoulders. _Sweetie pie,_ it says. The mechanic's fingers dig into the blanket, his chest going so tight he's sure he's having an asthma attack like he had when he was a kid. 

The movie starts, bright light bathing the audience. It's just Clint there, whispering sweet nothings to Nat and trying to get handsy. He looks over his shoulder - Vic and some of the former dancers are behind him. The bartender gives him a little wave and Steve nods, turns quickly back around. The blonde closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing, wills his pulse to slow. Brock is dead, with so many of the others, the dregs scattered. These are friends. This is home. He is safe. It seems untrue - there is no such thing as safety anymore, maybe there never was - but still Steve lets out a wavering sigh.

He watches the introduction to the fairytale unfold, the old woman turning to a beautiful sorceress, punishing the prince who had denied her shelter. Steve had never been arrogant, vain, cruel. He'd never refused to help anyone, even when it was to his own detriment, even at the risk of his own life. What had he been cursed for? Why had he been made to suffer? Certainly, he thinks wryly, no one had needed to strike his appearance - it had never been anything impressive - but he'd been punished in so many other ways. Then he remembers his scars and, yes, on top of being granted social isolation, bottomless anger, a formless internal darkness, he'd also been deformed. 

Steve realizes despite the many coping mechanisms he'd used as a shield against the negative thoughts, in this moment he still felt very small, very pathetic, very ugly - especially next to Buck. It was impossible not to notice as they'd stood near each other earlier this evening. The brunette is more than head and shoulders above him, their bodies even more strikingly different in size when the blonde's clothes actually fit. Buck is gorgeous, strong. He had looked so handsome, so sure and confident when he smiled at Steve. But how could he want Steve? What could his broken mind, his wilted heart, be worth to anyone? 

He's not sure where this is coming from - last night he'd been grinding on Buck naked for fuck's sake, both of them completely blissed out. Their relationship had seemed to advance by leaps and bounds in every way. Steve thought he was past this self-loathing nonsense, past the shivering fear of who was waiting in the darkness, past hearing the voices of the dead hissing at him about how weakscrawnypaleweirdstupidfaggydisgusting he was. He's suddenly aware he's trembling - with frustration, with fear. 

A big warm hand lightly rests on his own as it claws into the fabric beneath it. The mechanic jumps, turns to see the Soldier staring directly at him, eyes filled with concern. The blonde swallows hard, resists the urge to pull away or lash out as he had so many times when startled by physical contact. He thought he was past that too, the fight or flight response from the most innocuous of touches, especially from Buck.

"Are you...alright?" the brunette whispers, bending low. 

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lies, poorly. 

When he looks up again, the Soldier's brow is furrowed. 

"Have I...done something? Are you...displeased with my appearance? Perhaps you dislike the way this liquid makes me smell? Natasha insisted it was...sexy." 

Steve almost wants to laugh, but not at Buck's last comment. Here the mechanic is, picking himself apart brutally, letting every fear he's ever felt about being unlovable batter at him like so many ocean waves. And yet here's the person he'd felt intensely unworthy of moments ago, all wide-eyed with concern that _they_ had done something wrong. That they were not enough. The blonde practically throws himself against the bigger man's side, presses his cheek against his ribs, slides his arms around his waist. After a moment of frozen surprise, the Soldier loops an arm around the small, wiry shoulders. 

"You look amazing," Steve finally assures in a low voice, tilting his head back to meet the Soldier's gaze. He stretches up, takes a delicate sniff. The bigger man is wearing just the right amount of an intoxicating, probably expensive cologne. "And you smell _very sexy_. You're perfect." He presses a light kiss to Buck's jaw. 

"I...tried very hard. To make you happy," the Soldier whispers. "I have never..._been on a date._" 

"Neither have I," Steve responds quietly, looking down.

It was true. Going to the pub with Sam and Carol before heading to their place was as close as he'd gotten, and cards or darts followed by heavy fooling around hardly counted. He'd been too shy to return interest in the very few who showed it back in Brooklyn, or too wary - Taj had warned him about _older men_, the promises they would make and the control they'd want in return. 

If only he'd ran from Brock right away. 

**No more of that shit.** The bullheaded voice makes a sudden appearance. **We burned that motherfucker up - we saved all the people he would have hurt if we never met him.**

_And because of the boom, Nick found us. Because of Nick, we have a family again. We have Buck. Don't blow this up too._

"If I am doing something wrong, or not doing something I should be, please tell me. I am...very nervous," the Soldier implores with naked sincerity. 

"I'm just as clueless as you and probably twice as anxious," Steve continues. "I'm sorry if you're not having a good time. I...tried hard too. To look nice. But now I... feel silly." The blonde runs his eyes down himself. 

Buck puts a finger under his chin and gently tips his head back to look at him. The bigger man's eyes glow softly, the periwinkle color of blooming hydrangeas, a shade that materializes just for the blonde.

"Little mechanic," the Soldier whispers softly. "You are _always_ so beautiful. I always enjoy being with you. I love you." 

Buck kisses him, long and slow. The warmth of it washes over him, melts his fear, his self-hatred. He thought he remembered the Soldier saying the words before, when they were in their emotional throws after the feeding, but he had dismissed it as his imagination or Buck's attempt to calm him as he sobbed. He couldn't have said it. Couldn't have meant it if he did, even though he'd known deep down it was true since the day Win pointed it out. It seems okay right now - surrounded by his friends with the soft glow of the screen on their faces, stars faint overhead, warm and safe in the bigger man's arms - to say it back.

"I love you," Steve whispers, nearly silent. 

Buck's smile can only be described as beatific. He kisses Steve again, gentle but insistent. It grows intense quickly. For a minute they lose themselves to the feeling of their mouths moving together. 

"Ewwwwww!" Alicia interrupts, Silence and the toddler beside her. "You're not supposed to be gross like the other grown ups, Buck." 

She's wearing his old mask, the cracked one. He'd fixed it with epoxy and traded her for the whole one (smokey but undamaged), while she was still in med bay. She'd demanded it back from Clint as soon as she was awake and wore it like a security blanket, but the Soldier knew he'd need it eventually in the field. He'd had Steve sew her an elastic strap for the repaired one, something simple, so she could easily pull it off and on. The girls regularly "play Soldier," pretending to do martial arts, taking turns wearing the mask, their hair pushed in their faces as his so often is. 

Buck sits up fully, smiling at the girls standing in front of him. Violet throws herself onto the blonde. 

"STEEEEEEEEVE!" 

He smiles that she's finally getting the V sound but shushes her. She copies his gesture, one finger to her lips. "Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she repeats loudly.

Silence appears to sign something to Buck. 

"Yes, Steve is my boyfriend," he responds, signing back the words as well. 

_Of course_ he knew how to sign, Steve had thought the first time he saw him do it months ago, and _of course_ he had started to teach her. What else would a genetically enhanced, bloodthirsty super soldier do with his spare time but help a mute child communicate? Steve feels even _smooshier_ as the girls all settle in around them to watch the movie. Like Hallmark greeting card, Lifetime movie gag-worthy saccharine feels. He smiles, watching Buck start to get intensely into the movie, eyes going wide as the first big musical number with the dishes happens. 

The Soldier's dorky laugh (_huhuhuhuh_) fills the air several times during the movie, the girls giggling either with him or at him. Eventually Simon takes the sleeping Violet from Steve and the other girls, rubbing their eyes, crawl back to Muriel to settle in. Buck seems particularly tense when the villain and the cursed prince battle, even more so after he's defeated and the kiss of true love....

_Fuck._

...turns the kind-hearted monster back into a man.

As soon as the credits start to role the Soldier is up like a shot, walking off quickly, hands curled almost into fists. He's going so fast Steve is almost jogging to catch up with him, then speed-walking to keep beside him. The blonde says nothing at first, just patiently let's Buck stew. His eyes are glowing pale blue now and he's scowling hard. Eventually they're away from everyone else, clearly headed to the glass making area. There's a messy stack of cast offs there, blocks with too many imperfections to be used, intended to be broken down and mixed back in with the scrap. 

Buck takes his blazer off, then his shirt. He lays them carefully over the back of a bench forty feet from the pile. The big man proceeds to smash block after deformed block with his metal fist, stopping occasionally to shovel up the shards and dump it in the intended bin. Steve sits beside his discarded clothes, waiting patiently. When the Soldier is still at it several minutes later, Steve slips off his sweater and picks up one of the sledgehammers the crew had been using. There's a pair of goggles there too. 

_Safety first._

Buck stills when he walks up next to him. Steve gives him a little smile, then swings the sledge with practiced skill, shattering a block. The Soldier's eyes widen a bit, then he crushes another block with his fist. They take turns watching each other, muscle working under flesh. Steve sweats, face red as he breathes hard, but he shows no signs of stopping. When they're done, over a hundred deformed blocks are crushed and added to the scrap bins. The blonde all but collapses on the bench, panting, his head going back. When he finally picks it up, Buck is sitting beside him, watching him intently. Steve grins, still breathing hard, as he wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. 

"I am not human," Buck says directly, voice firm. 

"I don't need you to be," Steve manages, throat dry. 

"I will never be human again," the Soldier challenges.

"You're more than human," the blonde rasps, "and that's more than enough for me." 

Buck is on him in a flash, hunching to crush their mouths together as he straddles him on the bench. They make out like it's the first time - like it's the last time - hands everywhere, tongues colliding. Steve grabs the Soldier's ass with both hands, urges him to rock his hips as he ruts up against him. The mechanic is hard beneath him, the bulge in the brunette's pants rubbing against the blonde's belly, as they grind progressively faster.

"I want you inside me," Buck breathes into his ear. "Please, Steve. _Please,_" he begs, pressing down on him harder.

Home wasn't close, but the mechanic was great at improvising. He knows he has several bobby pins in one pants pocket, it being an old habit to grab them before he leaves the house, and a quick survey of the surroundings yields a building he knows will be empty. Urging the bigger man off him, then grabbing him by the wrist, he pulls him to the side door of the messhall. It takes him less than a minute to pick the lock, then he's leading Buck inside. It's even quicker to pick the padlock on the pantry. Steve lifts a tray of wrapped bread off a low table, puts it on a shelf, throws a tablecloth where it had been and another on the floor in front of it. 

"Take everything off," Steve whispers, eyes blazing. The Soldier complies, watching him silently as he searches the shelves. He grabs a jar of coconut oil and moves to stand on the cloth. 

"Come'ere," Steve purrs, curling a finger to beckon the taller man. 

Buck walks over, unceremoniously bends over the table, widens his stance a bit. After a moment of stillness in the room he asks, nervous, "Is this acceptable? I have not...done this in any other position." 

It breaks Steve's heart a little. He hasn't either, not really if you remove the table from the equation. It was always some variation of this - face down, ass up - like a very old rap song his neighbor used to play. Steve lays a hand on him, urging him with movement to turn over, then to sit on the edge. The blonde moves between his legs, Buck's knees bent and flaring out, thighs spreading, inviting. The mechanic's guess was right - the table was the perfect size to make up for the difference in their height. He kisses the bigger man, soft at first, gradually increasing the pressure, the movement, as his hands wander over hard muscle and soft skin. 

Steve's mouth works down Buck's smooth throat, then around to suck at all the sensitive spots on his neck that he knows he likes, while he picks the jar back up and opens it. He dips in to pull out a small glob, head moving lower to flick his tongue over a lavender nipple, as he twists the lid back on and sets it aside. He puts the little lump in one palm, rubs it to warm it, carefully runs two fingers through the resulting liquid as his mouth moves to suckle the other firm nub. The brunette pants lightly, fingers running down the mechanic's sides to his waistband, following it to the center to undo the button and zipper. Buck slides the jeans down over Steve's sharp hip bones to his knees, then his hands move back to his waist, slide lower. Fingers flesh and metal follow either side of the V of Steve's lower abdomen, down to graze one hand over his length as the other slides around his sack. The brunette's hands trail away, come back, away, back as the blonde starts to lightly rub his entrance. 

"Ehhhhhnn," Buck has time to groan before Steve's mouth is on his, tongues working as languid as the smaller man's fingers, becoming more aggressive with his mouth as he eases his pointer into and then out of him, repeating the gesture over and over. Even with the oil, it's easy to tell how fast the bigger man self-lubricates.

"Fuck," Steve whispers against his mouth, pulling back a bit, pressing their foreheads together, "I love how you get so wet for me."

"Nnnnnn," is all the Soldier can manage as the mechanic carefully slides another finger inside him. "Uhn!" he adds as Steve thrusts a little harder. This time he spreads his fingers slightly, helping him loosen. When they're practically flying in and out of him, he quickly pushes in a third, working him a bit slower for a moment before thrusting harder and deeper, moving his fingers apart rhythmically. 

"Please, please fuck me," Buck whimpers. Then, just to be sure there's no doubt to his meaning, no thought of evasion to other pleasant but placating tactics, he adds, "Please put your cock in me." 

The mechanic can't say no one had to ask him twice because at this point the Soldier has asked with words or movements multiple times. But right now, right here, in the goddamn pantry, he doesn't need any further urging. He pulls his fingers out, rubs the remaining oil between his hands, uses one to rub over Buck's opening while he strokes himself with the other. This had to be good for Buck, painless. Steve moves forward, purposeful, certain. Well, almost.

"You're sure?" he whispers, the tip of his cock just against the puckered skin.

The Soldier nods vigorously.

"Promise me if it hurts at all, or is even just uncomfortable, you'll tell me." 

"I promise," Buck breathes. 

Steve presses their foreheads back together as he slowly directs himself into the Soldier. They make a shocked, high sound almost in unison as the head breaches him. The blonde hesitates, but Buck's big hands grip his narrow ass, urge him slowly forward. They groan together as the thick dome spreads him open, makes room for the shaft to follow, slowly stretching him. When the mechanic is mostly inside, the bigger man lifts his long legs effortlessly, knees level with the middle of his ribs as he spreads them wider apart, allows Steve to enter him fully. 

"Fuck, fuck," the blonde half-whispers, half-whines, leaning a bit back to look down at Buck's cock, laying fully hard against his angled belly. His eyes trail lower, to the vaguely purplish sack drawn up tight, the small blank space of the Soldier's perineum glistening with slick, lower still to Steve visibly buried in him up to the hilt.

"Oh my God, Buck. Oh my God," he gasps, watching as he carefully eases most of the way out, then back in, repeats the movement slowly again and again. "You look so good taking me." 

"Do...do it harder," the big man breathes, fingers curling into Steve's skin, eyes glowing purple-blue. 

The mechanic slides his arms against the backs of Buck's thighs, pushing his legs out and back even farther as the blonde grips the fabric covered edge of the table. He rolls his hips, not pulling out as far, fucking into him deep and steady. The blonde buries his face against the Soldier's neck, kissing, licking, sucking, feeling his pulse speed up under his lips. The most delicious sounds come out of Buck, breathy and high and gravelly all at once, getting louder and closer together.

"You take me so good," Steve groans in his ear. "You feel so incredible. You have no idea how much I thought about this, about making you cum like this." He can't believe he's saying these things, even after the other times, isn't sure it's appropriate "first time" behavior (or location or anything). Shouldn't they be in a bed, lots of candles, missionary position, cooing sweet nothings? That's how they did it in the movies.

"Could...I could see it. When I asked. How much you...wanted to be inside me. Your...your cock feels so good," Buck whisper-groans, eyes partially closed but only getting brighter. "I love it filing me. _I love you._ Don't stop." 

Okay, scratch everything he'd thought a minute ago. It's not like a single thing about either of them or their relationship was at all conventional, obeyed any logic, any rules. This is perfect. This is heaven. He kisses Buck hard, tongues rolling together, bodies following suit as the Soldier cants his hips up over and over to meet Steve's thrusts. The blonde bends his knees a bit, changes the angle ever so slightly and then the Soldier isn't saying anything, can't say anything. A long series of increasingly helpless sounds come out of him as the ridge on the mechanic's head rubs just so over the sensitive spot inside him. Suddenly his head falls back, his wail deafening in the small space as he finishes all over both of them. The feel and sound and taste and sight of Buck are suddenly all too much and Steve nearly blacks out as he empties into him, screaming against the bigger man's neck.


	53. On the road again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest joins the road trip.

The destination would only be about eight hours away, pre-collapse but - between roads choked with heavy traffic as people fled, the occasional city that was still burning, avoiding known strongholds of marauders and reavers, and the extreme conditions of the landscape after so much climate change - Buck estimates the trip will take them over a week. The fastest route after crossing a wide, land-locked area heading away from the wastes, was through a coastal area ravaged by hurricanes. The changing weather patterns had made them more frequent, intensified them significantly from what they were even a few decades ago, let alone at the turn of the century. They completely leveled entire areas, ripping out every piece of vegetation and obliterating the structures there.

The Soldier has been more forthcoming with Steve and the others about parts of his neural net still being operational. He had not wanted them to worry, especially the little mechanic, that he could still be controlled by someone. The woman had said the words and they had not worked. Plus when he had pulled the debris from his head, he had seen the smashed brain matter, pieces of the micro-circuitry there. He had reviewed schematics of what was inside his head enough, by accident, on the doctors' charts and holograms to have an idea that it was the limiter chip cluster that allowed them to take him over.

One of the remaining functional chips connected to a weather satellite. He would know precisely when a hurricane was approaching, when they should take cover, how strong it would be and from what direction the wind and rain would come. That meant they could travel in the area most others avoided. He had been through some of this landscape on missions, before the plague, and had several ideas of well-built structures that could withstand the onslaught. Buck very carefully avoids thinking about what he was doing while he was visiting these towns and cities in the past. They could travel into the dangerous region, take cover when the hurricane approached in one of several large buildings, rest for a few days and scavenge within their shelter, then move on. In addition, were they to be followed, they could lose anyone on their tail in the storm.

He also had a chip for GPS. It did not track any certain place, such as the location of either of the facilities (which was a thing hidden even from him in case he were to be captured and studied), nor would it provide directions to a specific locale, but it told him constantly what his precise latitude and longitude was. It could be helpful if they became separated. He had worried briefly that it would allow someone else to find him, but somehow he could sense that he received data from it, but it did not send out a signal. In addition it would be easy to keep track of sites they may wish to return to in the future for scavenging. 

There were other chips - some containing data storage like maps, weapons schematics and other useful information that was highly technical and difficult for even a mind like his to remember in precise detail - and some of them he did not know the purpose of. He presumed that they provided backup processing power or worked as a routing system to connect the chips that were wired together into the various parts of his brain. He had considered briefly having Banner remove them all. However many of them proved useful, especially the one tracking the asset were it to ever be moved or stolen, and they also lack the equipment to properly restrain him. He could become violent, especially with excessive blood loss.

He had not felt the pull of the asset in some time, becoming separated from the Claptrappers as he followed on foot while they carried it towards their community in a large vehicle. Part of him regretted not running after them, full speed, so that he saw precisely where it was stashed. At the time he had thought of his limited energy reserves, also of being caught in a trap if he proceeded too quickly and they knew he was following. The fact that he must be extremely close to it, yet cannot sense it at all, is the only thing that comforts him enough to leave the area. Certainly if he cannot find it, someone from the outside would have no idea that it was there.

The Soldier is unsure why things seem different between himself and Steve. He cannot keep his eyes from the little mechanic as he drives the big truck, calmly explains to Buck how to work the manual vehicle so that he too can learn to drive it. Certainly he has always liked looking at him, right from the first time he saw him in the barn, but there is something different this morning after their activities in the pantry. They have engaged each other sexually many, many times at this point and he had already told the blonde that he loved him. Perhaps it was because he had said the words back, perhaps it was the intimacy of the smaller man inside him, the feel of their bodies linked together. 

Steve had looked at him during the entire event as if he were perfect and beautiful, the only person he wanted. Everything about the experience had been incredible, such a stark contrast to the times bent over the cold table in the second facility. The little mechanic wanting to face him - wanting to kiss and touch him, to slowly ready him so that he was comfortable and enjoyed every minute of it - warmed him immensely. He looks at the Soldier differently as well, sneaking glances, a private smile on his face. When he notices how distracted the bigger man is, it only grows wider, showing his perfect white teeth (and just barely the small gap far back on the left side where several of his molars were missing). His hand leaves the stick shift temporarily to lightly squeeze Buck's leg.

They've decided on a rotation. Steve will drive the first two hours, helping Buck learn what to do, then they will give the Soldier some practice time in the flat scrubland that they know from the drone surveys is largely empty. Once he has gotten comfortable, he will drive for a few hours then Steve and Buck will eventually move up into the crow's nest, allowing Win into the driver's seat with Luis riding shotgun. The rest are in the box on the back. Eventually Greta will take over driving with Coulson up front, and the others will take turns rotating between the enclosure and the lookout. 

Steve had taught Win how to drive stick several years ago. In fact, part of how he had convinced Nick to allow him to bring her, aside from needing her welding skills, was the fact that she could be a back up driver, along with Greta (their all around bad ass bitch, who brought a lot of her personal supply of weapons with her, including more grenades). If someone were to be killed, the mission would not fall apart simply because they did not have transportation back. Luis had worked in his uncle's body shop, and could be helpful if they needed to do any repairs to the vehicle or get any others running to clear them from their path. Mostly, he just wanted to tag along, and Steve agreed after Buck's urging. 

Clint and Nat were muscle, obviously. They could run into virtually anything out here, even with their best laid plans of avoiding population, even with one of the smaller drones and a tablet loaned to them to scout ahead. That was the same reason that Fury had allowed Buck to go (not that he could have stopped him) - even though he had little in the way of any of the skills needed to retrieve the pumps, sending him was like sending several dozen well-trained operatives. It was easier to dispatch a small group under his protection than to send out his entire ops team, requiring multiple vehicles and a lot more supplies, not to mention leaving Claptrap without skilled soldiers who had leadership experience. 

Coulson had convinced Hill to join, but at the end of the day one chaperone was not enough for Fury. Maybe he knew that she liked Phil, trusted him a bit too much. Or maybe, as was his way, he just could not resist fucking with Steve and the Soldier. He had sent Sitwell along to babysit them, under the guise that he could run the drone and the tablet, something that Hill already knew how to do.

"Good to have a back up," Nick had said. 

He had also insisted that Sitwell was not as useless as he seemed when the mechanic said he was a weasel and a pencil pusher not suited to danger (Buck could draw associations to the mammal called a weasel, but he was unsure what a pencil pusher entailed - It sounded like a torture method). Fury informed the blonde that Jasper had been in the field as a spy for nearly ten years before he had taken a fairly prestigious job behind a desk. He was not without hand-to-hand combat skill and was a good shot. The fact that he was annoying, and a bit obsessed with Steve, was neither here nor there. 

After a few rotations, Buck and Steve are in the back of the truck with Jasper. The bespectacled man avoids eye contact, getting a bit red when he realizes that the Soldier is glaring at him. The big man had literally growled at him when he had arrived at the truck, Fury there to smooth things over (which really meant some variation of him saying this is how it is, and if you don't like it find your own goddamn truck and supplies). 

Steve had never told the Soldier directly about any of the conversations with their neighbor, but of course if he were anywhere nearby he could hear every word. It was obvious even in Buck's limited experience that the man _wanted_ his boyfriend, and was very inappropriate in the way he spoke to him. Still, he was not big, not a threat, and he believed Steve more than capable of defending himself against him. He did not want to overstep, act hyper protective or jealous. 

The Soldier grasped from several of their interactions that Jasper was either not entirely aware of his attraction to Steve or at the very least could not admit it openly. That confused and even saddened him. Buck was completely oblivious to the behavior of typical people or their social relationships for so long, yet he had started to develop inklings of his romantic and sexual interest in Steve quite early. Once he was certain of what those feelings meant, he had no qualms about expressing them directly to the blonde's face. He cannot imagine anything else, cannot imagine being so close to Steve for so long and never doing anything about wanting him. It worries him, makes him think that Jasper's path to getting Steve's attention or being with him in some way will be negative, dangerous.

The first day passes without incident. They clear the broad swath of the scrub land, and come to a small town, mostly burnt down and heavily picked over. Buck and several of the others search the buildings, finding nothing of value but also no sign that anyone has been there for a very long time. They set up camp in an area with lots of high ground cover to hide their fire from any prying eyes in the distance. It is good to be out of the confines of the vehicle after the long, bumpy ride, largely off road.

The Soldier notices that Win and Luis are holding hands as they all sit around the flames (minus those on watch), waiting for their dinner to heat up. It warms him, seeing two people that he cares about possibly finding something together that he has so recently discovered the importance of. Without thinking, he leans forward and slides his flesh arm loosely around Steve's neck in an affectionate gesture. The smaller man was knelt down a bit ahead of him, stirring their food. The blonde goes rigid, and the Soldier sees Clint give him a warning look from across the circle. He pulls back immediately with a soft apology.

After they have all eaten, the couples snuggle up together around the fire, making small talk. Jasper and Hill are on watch, maybe offering intentionally so that they can avoid seeing the objects of their affections pressed close to someone else. Steve surprises Buck when he sits between the bigger man's bent legs and leans his back against his chest. He grips the metal wrist and pulls that arm around his waist.

"It's okay if you do it with this one. Then I know it's you," Steve whispers only loud enough for Buck to hear him.

The Soldier bends down and presses his lips to the crown of the blonde's head, leans lower still. "Little mechanic," he whispers in his ear. A pleasant shiver goes down Steve's spine at that, and suddenly all he can think about is how many days it is going to be before they have any time alone. 

Greta takes out a baggie of dried plant matter. "Alright, kiddos. Who wants to get baked with Mama Greta?" 

After a lot of debate, and another infrared drone sweep of the area, they decide to all smoke except the two on watch and Buck. The Soldier insists it will not do anything for him, though to be honest he is unsure. They had tested many pharmaceuticals on him, but he does not believe that marijuana was among them. He enjoys seeing them all giggly, talking about inanity. Their behavior reminds him of the happy times with Steve and himself drunk from the feeding - when they had laid in the bed ranting about nonsense, or their antics at the messhall.

Buck suddenly wants to bite him very badly. 

He had thought the want would subside, now that they did so many other pleasurable things together, shared so many types of intimacy. Tasting him had possibly been a bad decision. His sweet flavor lingered in the Soldier's mind, the pleasure of drinking even a small amount so intense. Even more, he loved the sounds that Steve had made as he pushed his pulse into him, how that light use of it only intensified the smaller man's arousal and sexual pleasure. The Soldier wants it to go beyond that - to bury it in him, to make him bellow and feel him sag in his arms, all thoughts of anything else, any other sensation, drown out in the waves of the throb that he forces through him. 

He cannot. Not with the others here. Besides, they would be wrapped up together for hours afterwards, even possibly overnight and into the next day. There is no place to be alone, short of lashing themselves to the crow's nest, not precisely a comfortable place to curl up when they are in such a delicate state. He cannot guarantee he would not hurt one of them if they came near Steve, especially Sitwell. Buck pushes the thoughts away, tries to focus on how pleasant it is to hold the blonde this way rather than on how warm he is and how good he smells. He tilts his head back, trying to get some air that does not just taste of Steve, and sees Jasper leaning over the top of the truck staring down at them.


	54. Road rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang takes a detour.

"We don't wanna do that," Clint insists. There's a cluster of them gathered around a giant paper map, spread out on the ground with stones on every corner to hold it down. "It's too close to the city. It'll be a clusterfuck. I...came from that way." There's something in his tone Steve has never heard before. Fear maybe?

"Look," Sitwell responds, "you all saw the footage on the tablet. The bridge is collapsed, so unless the Soldier's going to hoist it up out of the water, then hold it aloft while we drive over it, we're out of options. Everything else is clogged or obviously filled with hostiles."

"He could carry the truck across the river," Clint challenges, gesturing to Buck. The statement earns him a _you're such an idiot_ look from Steve. With his eyes up, he also notices the Soldier glowering at Jasper as he kneels down next to the blonde. 

"Doubtful. But either way, unless he can also fly," Jasper continues, "we'd need it lifted a lot more than eight feet. That river is forty feet deep, easily, anywhere near us. The truck isn't water tight. This is the only road clear enough to get us where we need to go. Unless you want to backtrack to this other one," his finger slides sideways on the map, his shoulder moving closer to the mechanic's, "or try to find a more shallow spot to drive across, which is still insane. Either way, adds two days minimum to reaching our destination." 

"He's right," Nat agrees. "The terrain is getting too rough to off-road anymore and any riverbed is unpredictable at best in a heavy vehicle." 

"Plus this truck's air intake is pretty low. Even shallow water would stall it," Luis adds.

"Let's say Buck could actually _lift a cargo truck and carry it across a river_," Steve glares at Clint, "or we just try to drive through, we're still wasting time finding a shallow enough spot and then a good road on the other side. We need relatively clear blacktop to make time and not waste fuel." Steve traces the route with his finger to a point where the line splits in multiple directions. "If we take the highway and slingshot half way around the city, through these burbs here, then get off before the clog up once we get closer to the major entrances and exits..." 

"Entrances?" Win asks. "But the people would have been leaving."

"Yeah," Luis replies, "if it's like the city...New York...people just started driving the wrong way on the streets to get out. So pretty soon they just filled both sides tryna leave."

_They._ The panicked, the stricken, quite often the soon to be dead who tried to flea en masse from the chaos of the dying city. Many of them succumbed to their illnesses where they sat, some murdered for their supplies or killed in the numerous traffic accidents - and resulting fires that spread through the cars - caused in the frantic exodus. Many others had simply fled on foot, abandoning their useless vehicles.

There were largely two types of immune who had survived what was later called the collapse. Those who had fled populated areas well in advance of this tipping point, like Greta (set up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, packed to the gills with survival gear and supplies, not a single person to share it with) and those who had dug in and waited patiently until the worst of the insanity had died down. Steve fell into the latter category. He had walked past tens of thousands of cars with bloating or scorched corpses inside on his way out of the city and its surrounding communities. One of his many recurring nightmares is the endless, shining metal river of them stretching silently into the distance.

"It looks like we'll have a lot of options once we get around here." Steve points to the place where multiple smaller roads branch off the highway. "One of these has to be clear enough to make it through. Then we book it past these outlying second ring suburb areas on the other side and into the storm zone." 

"I agree. We have limited additional fuel." Buck looks to the side, as if listening. "There is a category six that will begin affecting the zone in eight to ten hours. We need to reach the shelter before then." 

"Category six? I thought they went to five?" Nat asks.

"The last scale, before the collapse, was amended. They rated the most powerful hurricane as a seven. Humans have destroyed the equilibrium of the planet. Old metrics no longer apply." The Soldier gestures around at the landscape, so much changed from his first visit decades before. He had been to the area at least four times. This had been a paradise once, and it had attracted the wealthy and powerful. They had attracted him, or at least those who commanded him. 

"Isn't that too dangerous?" Jasper looks up, brows furrowed. "Even a category five will level most anything." 

"We will be far enough away from the coast that it will lose a significant amount of its strength when it makes landfall. I am certain the structure that I have in mind will tolerate winds of up to a hundred and fifty miles per hour and impact by large debris, in addition to having an underground parking facility to protect the vehicle." 

"And how do you know its specs so well? Do you have an avid interest in architecture?" Sitwell crosses his arms. 

"They were uploaded," Buck taps his temple.

"For what purpose?" Jasper continues.

"I was sent there to kill its owner. He had a highly protected penthouse with a variety of reinforcement and security measures, in addition to the overall structure being designed to withstand natural disasters and explosive attack. This included steel shutters, which will no doubt have been employed before it was abandoned."

"If it was abandoned," Sitwell counters. 

"There are storms virtually every day and catastrophic damage to the communities. It is unlikely any occupants remain. There would be no place to scavenge or grow crops. We will be very safe there."

"And did it keep him safe from you?" Jasper asks smugly. "This man with all his planning and strong walls?"

"No," the Soldier says simply, looking into the smaller man's eyes. 

"And what did he do, to deserve something like you being sent after him?" Sitwell asks as he rolls up the map. 

"I do not know." Buck looks at his feet, then stomps back to the truck. He slams the passenger door after he's inside. 

Steve's gaze trails after him, then he shoots Jasper a heated look. "That wasn't necessary," he says tersely, brows furrowed, before walking off. 

Luis and Win scowl at the man, take their leave. The archer grabs Sitwell by the upper arm as he stands.

"You better watch yourself, Jasper. A lot can happen on the road when you don't have any friends," Clint smiles. They're the same height but the archer has thirty pounds on the other man.

"You don't have any friends, and you seem to manage." Jasper eyes the fingers clutching his arm. 

The archer let's out a sharp laugh. "These folks are all my pals, including Buck, and if you speak to him like that again, I'll knock your teeth in." 

"Buck is nice to you because you're a gateway to Steve."

"Maybe you should have tried that method. I could've got you somewhere with my baby bro if you weren't such an asshole."

"Your _baby brother_. Who's struck you, mocked you, dozens of times in public. Much like your wife, who humiliates you every chance she gets. You're a joke to these people. You know why they keep you around? Because you're like a dog. Loyal, good at killing things. But not very bright. Not one to question or resist. You really only excel in doing what you're told." 

"Clint, let Sitwell go." Nat's mildly exasperated but mostly bored voice carries over from near the truck.

Jasper smiles, raises his eyebrows as if to say _see what I mean_, as Clint releases him. He walks to the back of the truck to stow the map before taking position with his rifle in the crow's nest next to Hill. Barton stays in place, stewing, until Win calls him. 

"You sure you're up to this?" Nat asks, ignoring Sitwell but clearly referencing him more than his lookout partner. 

Hill just nods. Nat didn't know Maria well on a personal level, but had always liked her style. Woman of few words, all around badass, Fury's closest confidant and advisor. The redhead had watched the tall, athletic brunette mop the proverbial floor with cannibal after cannibal in the reavertown, her expression barely changing. Other than the brief moment before Steve had helped her out with a well-placed slingshot volley, she'd looked about as concerned as if she were doing her taxes. 

They're miles out from the city and they can already see the smoke. Parts of the western suburbs are on fire. It drifts lazily across the overpasses, making them slow to a crawl as they get closer, choking the sky and obscuring their vision. 

"I will walk ahead," Buck offers, when visibility drops to nothing. Steve gives him a fearful look, but nods as he puts the goggles and mask in place, gestures to his walkie. "I will radio instruction." 

It's a tense forty-five minutes easing around smashed semis and pile ups, the Soldier coming over the channel to give course adjustments, or occasionally asking them to halt. They can hear the scrape of large debris - smaller cars probably - being pushed out of the way. Occasionally there's the loud crash of something big landing below after he's hoisted it over the side. Steve realizes they'd never make it through without him to clear the path, but of course he's the reason they're going in the first place. Still, there was only so much near the junktown to sort through. It was inevitable that they would come out this far eventually.

Finally they're through and he returns to the vehicle, wreaking of burning clothes, drapes, water bottles, children's toys, a thousand other things releasing an endless stream of toxins into the air. 

_Because the greenhouse gasses from using fossil fuels wasn't enough already,_ the mechanic thought to himself, _now we're just going to set all of the shit we made out of plastic and polyester on fire as well._

And these _were_ intentional fires. It had been six years give or take since the collapse, the panic, and there was no doubt in his mind that these were arson. Warring gang factions fighting or marauders burning people out of their sanctuaries. Clint was right (and what a rare thought that was). They shouldn't have come so near such a populace area. Steve barely has time to finish the internal sentence when he hears the signal from above - two quick thuds. In the driver's side mirror he sees a heavily decked out truck pull onto the entrance ramp they had passed a quarter mile back. There's a human skeleton wired to the grill. He guns it. 

The others gain on them quickly - their truck is lighter, even with the relatively open back filled with people. Shots ricochet off the plated guards over the backs of the Claptrappers' tires. They were hinged, made of multiple strips linked together, allowing them to push up if they hit against a low-lying patch in the road. Going on flat pavement at this speed they hung practically vertical, only slightly flared back at the bottom by the speed of the truck. The basic concept was Steve's idea but Win had perfected the manner of execution and done most of the assembly. They shoot out the passenger side mirror next.

A shot suddenly cracks from above and Steve sees the other truck weave, then go over the side. Hill must have gotten the driver. There's no time to celebrate - a Humvee with a plated window speeds up to take it's place. They have heavy artillery mounted to the top.

"Shit!" Steve yells, swerving from side to side randomly as the marauders open up on them. The shells on such a weapon could probably go through metal. The attackers miss several times, but then the box takes fire. The blonde hears it ricochet around inside. "Fuck! Fuck!" 

"We must get beside them," Buck says, sounding inappropriately calm.

"If we do that they'll take out the tires for sure!" The mechanic weaves hard again, putting a wrecked car between them. 

"Not if we only pass them briefly," the Soldier replies. "Pull to the right. Slow down. When I give the signal, hit the brakes very hard." With that, the passenger door is opened and closed in a split second and he hears him on the roof. 

Steve closes his eyes tight briefly, lets out a long wavering breath, then slows the truck. He keeps to the right lane, allowing them to get close. Then he hears it, two quick deliberate thuds of the Soldier's boot slamming on the top of the cab. He hits the brakes as quick and hard as he can without dumping the truck. As the other vehicle flies past, he sees a blur smash through their unprotected rear passenger window. 

The Claptrappers' truck comes to a stop but the Humvee keeps going. The vehicle swerves, slows, coasts into a wrecked vehicle. He can see muzzle flashes in the confined space. Then nothing. A door flies off. Out steps Buck, covered in blood. Steve has long enough to register how that barely even phases him anymore before he hears the signal from the roof again. More incoming. The Soldier must see them too, because he's picking up the discarded door and running towards their truck. He slides to a halt on the pavement a few feet from Steve's partially plate covered window as he throws it. The mechanic watches in the driver's side mirror as it smashes through the wire mesh covered windshield of the approaching pickup and it swerves into one of the wrecks. 

People start to file out of the cab and the bed - a barrage of gunfire erupts from the Claptrappers' truck and from the Soldier, who is advancing towards the rear of the vehicle. The blonde realizes from the sounds that there must be more people above in the crow's nest than before, probably climbing through the hatch after hearing the recent signal. Person after person falls dead behind them. 

Suddenly a leather clad woman zooms up on a motorcycle, spinning something similar to a Molotov cocktail on a rope, already lit. They come at the truck fast. The mechanic watches as an arrow goes into their neck and they topple off, the bike slamming into the guardrail. The woman's own weapon bursts on her as she falls, setting her aflame mere feet from Buck's boots. He sees a dozen more bikers with the same style of weapon emerge over the crest in the road behind them. Steve rolls down the manual window so that he can yell through the small holes in the plating. 

"Buck, get back in the fucking truck!"


	55. It doesn't sit well with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's plans are all wet.

Steve is weaving quick through the narrow corridors between parked and wrecked cars, but the stalled traffic is getting thicker and the blonde can see the metal river starting to solidify in the distance - they'll have to exit soon, before they hit the part of the highway that's nothing but auto graveyard. The rifle he'd heard go off when the first truck's driver was taken out was distinctive. The ex ops all had military hardware, not civilian hunting equipment like Steve and so many of the others. Each time he heard it fire a marauder fell from their still-moving bike or they went slack and wrecked, their companions spreading out to avoid being taken out. When the marauders occasionally got closer, he'd hear the familiar higher cracks of Greta's rifle or look back in time to see an arrow sticking out of an unprotected throat. 

The cycles don't have enough room with all the cars to move up on them and their pursuers have only been successful so far in (briefly) setting the back of the box on fire, but he knows the bikes are fast and they won't lose them in an open race once he exits the crowded highway. The Claptrappers have taken out nearly half of the approximately three dozen bikers that ultimately joined the pursuit. They take return fire, which terrifies Steve, but he reminds himself the metal cargo box and shielding on the nest are excellent protection - his friends will be safe so long as those above are careful. 

The mechanic thinks the rag-tags in the trucks at the beginning were separate from the cycle gang, who all wear a green bandana around their left upper arm. He'd probably been right about the fires - rival groups fighting for turf, both distracted by the promise of supplies the big cargo truck offered. This is confirmed when another shielded truck attempts to break through the cycles only to have a biker shoot out their tire. Steve prays their own back tires weren't damaged by the spray of liquid fire earlier when he takes a sudden sharp turn down an exit ramp, rocking the truck briefly off the right set and onto the outside edge of the left before they land back on all four wheels with a loud rattle-thunk. Buck bounces so high in his seat he bumps his head on the ceiling. 

"Seatbelt!" Steve yells at him.

"I should exit the vehicle and engage them before they are able to flank us," the Soldier counters. 

"Absolutely fucking not! They have fire!" the blonde argues.

He scrapes the front right corner of a wreck near the bottom of the ramp with the truck's bumper intentionally, causing the battered car's back end to angle out and clean several of the attackers off their bikes. They're down to around a dozen in pursuit, but if they get alongside the truck it will only take one well-aimed volley of their whirling firebombs - to the side of the cab hard enough to break the window around the plating or into the crow's nest - to burn them or some of their friends alive. 

"They will move alongside us and attack those on the roof if I do not halt their advance before we reach open road!" Buck insists.

Steve slams on the brakes suddenly and the closest two bikes smash into the back of the box. When he pulls away and they fall, their wrecks take out three of the others. A rapid series of shots from the high-tech rifle above picks off the drivers who dumped their bikes. They could be up and in pursuit in minutes otherwise. 

_Smart, Hill._

He notices Buck reach for the door handle. "If you open that goddamn door, I will _never_ fuck you again!" The big man's hand stills. "You need to trust me and the others, not just go all Rambo like at the reavertown. Now put on your fucking seatbelt." He hears the click seconds later. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," the Soldier returns softly. Clint's really making progress on getting him to use his manners. 

Once they're off the exit, it's mostly open road. There's a few scattered vehicles but weaving around them is not much cover. The remaining seven cycles start to form up, several with firebombs at the ready. Steve spies a carwash to the right - there's a wash lane with semi-height clearance. He whips the truck sideways, down the ruined driveway and through the tunnel, praying the people in the crow's nest will duck. The thin, garage style door is down on the other side and he blasts through. The debris takes out the two that followed them in but the other five are lined up, waiting. Several throw their volleys, covering the hood and windshield plating with liquid fire, while the others open up with automatic weapons. 

Steve yanks the wheel, abruptly turning the truck almost sideways, and smashes into three of them. He hears the meaty thuds as they hit against the box, then - almost instantly - the high-powered rifle goes off above, killing the downed as he hears Greta's rifle take out one of the bikers that's still upright. An arrow hits the last attacker in the eye and they drop over unceremoniously. There's a triple thud from the roof - the all clear. The mechanic finally brings the cargo truck to a stop, knuckles white, panting as he leans his head against the steering wheel.

"It is a very good thing I was not driving," Buck says calmly. 

Steve isn't sure why it's so funny, but it makes him laugh long and hard. He shuts off the ignition. When he rolls his head to face the Soldier - still chuckling - the big man looks confused, but he offers the mechanic a sheepish grin. The blonde sits up, reaches over and grabs Buck's face with both hands. The brunette lets himself be pulled, forward and down, into a searing kiss. It doesn't take much urging before the bigger man is returning it with vigor, reaching over to unbuckle Steve. Buck's arms wrap around him, pull him to straddle his lap.

"Thank you for listening to me," Steve says after breaking their kiss.

"Thank you for keeping me safe," the Soldier whispers.

"I'm gonna fuck you so good the second we're alone," the blonde promises. 

The Soldier all but smashes their mouths back together, hands gripping the blonde's ass through his cargo pants, pulling them tight together. Steve can feel him half-hard beneath him. 

They hear a thump and loud curse from above.

"Best go check if anyone's wounded," the blonde whispers. Buck kisses him again, almost closed mouthed and sweet, before setting him back in the seat and unbuckling his seatbelt. Steve opens the door and leans out to put out the blaze on the hood with a small fire extinguisher. The Soldier stands stark still on the other side of the cab, clearly listening. 

"We are alone," he assures after a few minutes. 

They move around to eye those on the crow's nest.

Clint laughs. "You're some kinda wheel man, kid. That was impressive shit, other than the part where you almost took our heads off."

"Couldn'tadone better myself," Greta adds. 

"You guys with the aim though! I've certainly never shot anyone off a moving motorcycle from atop a speeding truck. Or through a windshield! Holy crap, Hill. I can't believe you got the first driver from that distance." Steve realizes it should be weird, congratulating each other on their kills. But this was the world now. 

"I can't take the credit for that," Maria says, standing. He sees she's shot through the shoulder, clutching it with her opposite hand. She tilts her head quick at Sitwell. That explains why he'd stopped hearing the second military rifle - she'd been too badly injured to fire and the first was, apparently, Jasper's. 

"He's a real ace," Greta begrudgingly admits. 

Steve can't hide the shock (and admiration) on his face as the bespectacled man looks down at him, large high-powered rifle over one smallish shoulder. 

"Excellent driving, Steven." Jasper smirks, and for once it doesn't look douchey.

"Good shooting, Jasper." The mechanic offers him a small but genuine smile. Buck doesn't seem to like that one bit, literally stepping in front of Steve and then jumping easily up onto the cargo box to help Hill. He crowds past the bespectacled man, intentionally bumping into him.

The Soldier also heals a few bullet grazes, scrapes and contusions on the others. Luis had taken a ricochet across the meat of his forearm. With all the others occupied outside the truck, he silently offers the wound up to his friend inside the cargo box. The bigger man grips him gently, presses his mouth over the graze, sucks softly for a few minutes. His violet eyes close as a little sound of enjoyment comes out of him. The familiar taste is grounding, helps him calm down. Other than Steve's, it is his favorite. He bites his tongue and heals the smaller man. They give each other a little smile.

"I am happy you were not badly injured," the Soldier almost whispers, easing Luis' arm into his lap.

"I'm happy you kept your ass in the truck when they had all those fireballs." 

"I attempted to engage them but Steve stopped me." 

"Oh, so you do listen to reason sometimes. Or did he threaten you?" 

"He said he would not sodomize me again if I left the truck," Buck says matter of factly. 

Luis' green eyes go wide and then he bursts into hysterical laughter.

"Please..." he gasps through his chuckling, "please don't say _sodomize_ ever again. Especially to Steve." There's actual tears streaming down his face he's laughing so hard. "That's like...the least sexy word. That just conjures up, like, Christopher Meloni going over his case file with Ice-T." He chortles loud at the look of confusion on the bigger man's face. "Oh Winter, buddy. Yer a trip. All your man had to do was threaten to cut you off." He starts laughing again hard as the Soldier scowls. 

The most injured party was the one Buck couldn't help - the truck. Bullets and engines don't mix, it turns out. It took an hour of scavenging the adjacent rest stop to pull replacement parts, Steve and Luis frantic as they do repairs even as Buck assures them again and again he hears no one. He leaves several times to drag bodies into the empty car wash and drain them. Jasper looks on with disgust from the nest, certain the Soldier is doing it in his eyeline intentionally. When they're finally finished, the young men are exhausted but the vehicle is in working order, they have a stash of spare parts, some siphoned diesel and two extra tires. Greta takes over driving, an even more tense than usual Phil in the passenger's seat. 

Steve doesn't make good on his promises once they're alone. In his goggles with a bandana pulled over his nose and mouth, he falls asleep almost instantly when his adrenaline crashes. The bigger man, in his own goggles and mask, carefully adjusts him - sitting up with his rifle strapped across his chest in the crow's nest - so that he's leaned back to back against Buck. His calm breaths and the slow thump-thump of his pulse lull the Soldier and he feels at peace, even as he constantly scans the distance for threats. They're eventually tailed briefly at a distance by another group of hostiles. By the time they get a few miles outside the storm zone they're utterly alone. 

It turns out their safehouse is a twenty story steel and concrete luxury hotel built in the early 2000s. They pull up just as the sky darkens even further - and isn't that a marvel? Actual rain clouds. The massive structure had back-up generators but they're long since drained of fuel. Buck simply lifts the huge, heavy rolling door to the underground parking garage by hand, then uses a long, thick pipe to push it up far enough for them to drive in. The only access from the parking garage into the building is an elevator, useless without power. They gather up the supplies they'll need and head back out to the street. The Soldier easily forces the security shudder up on the front, Steve picking the lock on the lobby door behind it rather than letting Clint kick it in. They'll need every bit of protection from the elements they can get and the slatted shudders aren't rainproof. 

Once inside, Steve drops his stuff and unceremoniously strips down to his underpants, his scars exposed for all to see. He walks past the others as they file in, by Buck still supporting the roll up shutter. 

"What the fuck are you doing, kiddo?" Greta asks, grinning. "At least wait till you've got a room to seduce him." 

"Can't you feel it?" he asks, smiling wide, as he walks backward outside. "It's gonna happen any minute now." 

They're all inside, watching him standing in the street facing them with his arms outstretched a bit. For a few seconds there's only silence. Then the sky seems to crack open and rain cascades down. Steve leans his head back, closes his eyes. It washes far more off of him than dust. It's like years melt away, some of the immense weight of everything he carries sloughing off to pool around his feet. Win joins him first, topless and wearing just a pair of blue granny panties. She laughs and grabs his hands and they spin, bodies glistening, their feet kicking up wet trails. Luis is out next, in his white boxer briefs. They soak through instantly, leaving nothing to the imagination, but no one seems to pay attention as he joins the little circle with the others, all of them linking hands and turning together.

_Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies. Ashes! Ashes! We all fall down..._

Buck shakes his head, willing the song away, unsure why it always leaves him so unsettled. 

Nat comes out next in her lacey black bra and panties. They're totally impractical, but they make her feel good, like life is about more than survival. The rain plasters her red hair to her face and neck as she squeaks - it's a rare and precious thing for the others to see her so vulnerable. Clint's naked when he emerges from the building. His wife laughs loud and jumps on him, a mirror image of the day when they'd found each other in the reavertown, her arms going around his neck and legs encircling his waist. She screams happily as he spins her around. Even Greta comes out, wearing men's boxers and a very practical bra with massive straps to support her shockingly ample cleavage. Win grabs her own breasts jokingly, then motions to Greta's, getting a hardy laugh from the older woman. Phil and Jasper look at each other briefly, both blushing at the entire display, then go back to staring outside, immobile. 

Hill just mumbles, "Civilians," and walks farther into the building alone. 

Steve has to motion to Buck to get him to join. He wedges the long pipe under the shutter and slowly strips in the doorway. Like the archer, he has nothing on under his pants. He hesitates but removes them and slowly comes out, his many differences laid bare for all to see. No one stares - his friends only smile at him and return to their various shenanigans. The mechanic walks over, carefully pushes his instantly saturated hair back out of his face, then slides his hands around the back of the bigger man's neck to pull him down into a kiss. 

Their moment is abruptly interrupted when they're hit with a huge splash of water. It's much colder than the rain. Clint, the bastard, found a bucket somewhere. He runs over to refill it under the rushing torrent from one of the building's downspouts. All Steve can do is laugh, watching his friend running through the rain naked - ass as white as Steve's - attempting to douse his wife, who giggles through her own protests as she fleas. 

"I have never stood in the rain before," Buck says, catching his attention. "It is...wet, but good." 

The mechanic gives him a smile, something unplaceable flashing in his eyes. "I'm gonna show you every good thing I know, Buck." 

"I will try hard to do the same." The bigger man smiles, leans back down to press their mouths together, arms encircling each other.

Clint stops in his revelries as he notices Jasper glaring at the kissing men, sees him gather up his bag and quickly walk deeper into the building alone. He's pulled from his thoughts as Win slaps the bucket he's holding, spilling icy water all over his cock and balls. The gang breaks into riotous laughter at his high-pitched screams. 

For many of them, the hours spent at the hotel would be among some of the best of their whole lives. For some, those days would be among their last.


	56. Baby, it's cold outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck's grip on the building is as tenuous as the one on his emotions.

Steve and the others - now dressed - meticulously check every room, floor by floor. Buck - still naked - crawls around the outside of the building urging down any steel shutters that are not fully closed. The rooms they were meant to protect are a mess of debris, broken glass and moldy, sopping wet carpet from repeated storm damage. He slips multiple times in the downpour, but manages to catch himself every time but the last. Buck lands with a sickening snap-thud on the pavement, an arm and a leg twisted behind him, his head ringing. He is half sitting up and adjusting the shattered limbs back into place quickly - they are healed seconds later. Briefly he considers the positive of the limiter chip in avoiding such excruciating pain.

_No, better to feel suffering some of the time than nothing all of the time._

There is a roll down that is damaged, dangling precariously by only one corner at the top. It had come partially loose in his hand, caused him to tumble. Now down on the street, he looks around for something to repair it. There is a long tangle of wire around the bumper of a wreck. He pulls it free, coils it around his wrist and climbs back up to the fifteenth story as the hard sheets of rain batter at him. Stringing the top of the shutter back to its mount inside the storage unit above the window, he carefully slides the sides of the shutter back into their tracks, then manages to fully roll it down. Not only will ensuring they are all closed offer them more protection now, but it will keep the building from falling into decay if they wish to use it in the future. 

Ultimately he circled every floor of the building, swinging from ledge to ledge and sill to sill, ensuring its integrity is fully intact and every window protected. Finally he climbs to the roof, a metalwork dome-like structure fitted with massive, ultra strong glass panels. They were similar to what was used to build observation decks and could withstand thousands of pounds of direct pressure, even tank fire. Unsurprisingly, they are all still structurally sound. He recalls being air dropped here from a great height, landing against the glass, sliding down its curved surface, then climbing the outside of the building to the penthouse on the floor below. Those windows were also incredibly strong, but there was a small ventilation shaft through the concrete. He dislocated his shoulders and snapped his collar bones to squeeze in. 

Buck had been ordered to kill all inside, not just the owner. His mistress, his guards, housekeeper, wait staff, even his dogs. He was told to use his hands, his teeth, not weapons. The thought chills him far more than the rain, which has turned icy cold. Everything is in order so he climbs back down. For a moment he just stands in the street, trying to focus on the happy time there, trying to convince himself he was worthy of being shown _every good thing_ as Steve had promised. He tries to block out the woman's terrified begging, the sound the dogs had made as he tore them apart. 

He makes himself recall every detail of the little mechanic from earlier - he had been so enticing, soft skin shiny and slick everywhere, short beard glistening with droplets, saturated hair pushed back away from his face, little beads of water on his big eyelashes, his soaked underwear clinging to him. Buck had pulled away from their intense kiss, concerned the others would see his body _react_, but just as much so because he felt completely overwhelmed emotionally. It was all too good. They were all too good, especially Steve. He did not belong there.

Telling the blonde they should begin readying the building, as the storm would quickly worsen, earned him a bit of a disappointed look. He had not even bothered to go back for his clothes, scrambling up the side of the building immediately, reasoning the heavy, wet fabric and stiff leather would impede his progress. Really, he could not look at Steve looking at him another second or risk the smaller man's questions. He would break under the weight of his gaze, his words - he would pour out all the horror he had wrought here.

Monster. Murderer. Creature. Abomination. _It._ Even Luis had called him an animal when talking with the others about their early times together. He had not meant to insult Buck, had looked at him with sympathy, but the truth of it was even harder to hear from someone he held so close. 

The Soldier tries to remind himself that he had used his great capacity for violence for good today, and for many days - months, years - before. Yet the truth was he did not know the people he killed that morning, their situations. There could be many like Luis among them, frightened and desperate, doing whatever they had to for protection. They may have committed deserving actions but been undeserving. Even Steve had admitted he killed people with the suitcase bomb who may not have been truly deserving in the course of meeting out justice to those who were. 

For the first time, the Soldier decides he is tired of killing. There are other things he can do with his body. Scavenge supplies, help his friends settle in, make Steve comfortable. More than comfortable. Suddenly, he badly wants to be with him, against him. It is more than lust; it is a deep, nameless need - a longing - he has not felt before. He feels himself sinking, like in the sandpit, and just as that day the mechanic is the only one who can pull him out. Something pings off his metal arm, pulling him from his thoughts. There is another and another, his face and shoulders now stinging as well as he is pelted with hundreds of tiny objects. It has started to hail, a rare thing for a hurricane. 

Buck hurries inside, closes the storm shutter over the lobby door (which he locks), sealing them safely in. He finds a stack of towels waiting with his clothes, folded up on a chair with his boots next to it, and quickly dries himself. Following his nose to Steve is easy, too easy, a trail of his delicious scent zig zagging through hallways and up stairwells. They have three quarters of the building checked already when he catches up to them - they find no one, not even corpses. He decides they can do without the mechanic for the rest of their sweep. 

"The building is sound, all shutters are now down, and the roof is fully intact. Perhaps Steve and I can begin reviewing what there is to scavenge in the public areas." The blonde makes a face like he's about to argue, but then Buck says the magic words. "_The pantry_ may have bulk supplies which were not easily carried out on foot or in smaller vehicles. If this place were closed up in the normal course of business for the intensified hurricane season, and no one utilized it after the collapse, there could be many supplies." 

"Go on, Stevie," Clint nods towards Buck. "This is probably overkill with so many of us anyway. We can radio if we see anything." 

They are three floors down when Steve finally speaks, side-eyeing him with a grin. "That was very sneaky." 

"I do not know what you are referring to," Buck says in a bland, even voice. 

"You know, we're wasting a lot of time walking down all these stairs. I wouldn't be averse to you just...carrying me to the pantry. Unless of course, you don't really _need_ to get there quick..." 

Without a word, Buck scoops him up and just starts jumping from landing to landing, the blonde making a surprised hoot and then giggling. 

They are in the big kitchen in minutes, moving through to the huge store room in the back. There are piles and piles of linen tablecloths and napkins, serving carts of all shapes and sizes, dishes, cookware. Steve is standing on his own two feet and looking around for all of thirty seconds before Buck is against him, kissing his neck, sliding his arms around the narrow waist. The bigger man is vaguely aware his own body is trembling, even though the cold should not affect him that way, even though he is still warmed through with the fresh blood from earlier. 

Steve's hands come up to his cheeks, easing them carefully apart. He pushes the brunette's hair, still a bit damp, out of his eyes then gazes into them intently. 

"Are you okay?" the blonde asks softly, stroking his temples. "You're shaking."

Buck swallows hard, pushes their foreheads together. "I...need...I need to...do something good, in this place."

"Do you want to tell me, what happened here?" Steve breathes. The big man shakes his head, the smaller man's moving slightly too with the force of it. 

"I want to think of you in this place. Not what was before." He pushes his chin forward, ghosts his lips across the blonde's as his grip moves to the narrow hips. "Let me pleasure you." 

When he pulls back, Steve's eyes radiate warmth as much as his little body does and there is a soft pink glow over the apples of his cheeks. He slides his hands down over Buck's jaw, the sensitive skin of his neck, to the buttons on the uniform shirt Fury had outfitted him with. The long, clever fingers undo them quickly then push the sides of it back, revealing his pecs and abs. 

"I want to please _you_," Buck whispers, stilling the blonde's hands as they move to his holster buckle. 

"Pleasing you right now will please me," Steve responds, smiling sweetly. 

He leans forward to mouth at the Soldier's chest, drawing a soft moan from the bigger man when the hot, wet tongue flicks light over his erect nipple. The Soldier releases Steve's hands and they continue undressing him, easing the shirt off his shoulders, then unbuckling the straps that hold his weapons, moving finally to his fly. Buck is suddenly very pleased that he chose not to put his boots back on, the fiddly laces always taking so long when they undress together, making him want to just tear the leather from his feet to get his pants off faster. He steps out of his slacks easily when they pool around his ankles a minute later. 

Steve presses against him, still fully clothed, tilts his head back to look Buck in the face as he slides two fingers into his mouth, then moves the hand low. He parts the Soldier's long legs carefully with his knee, moving it from side to side to urge them wider. The big man gasps when the slick fingertips graze his entrance, start to rub and circle and press, light at first and then harder as his wetness begins to slowly leak out. He sighs and groans softly again and again. It is not long before a finger eases into him and the feeling of being penetrated is so exquisite. He moans outright, sees heat flare in the other man's eyes before his own flutter shut.

He is suddenly struck by how much he would like to do these things for the smaller man, to give him that unique pleasure. Being touched there, entered by someone he wants, is such a different sensation than anything else. 

"I...I know I cannot touch you like this," he whispers, "but could I...could I...use my mouth on you there? Could I use my mouth on you right now?" 

Steve's hand stills, draws away and his expression is unreadable when he moves back a few steps. Buck swallows hard, thinking he has perhaps overstepped by even asking. After a long, silent moment, both of them frozen and wide-eyed, the blonde's hands move to slide down his suspenders. He kicks off his sneakers and lets the too-big pants fall to the ground.


	57. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take their intimacy farther in several ways.

"Where...? Where should I...?" the mechanic asks softly, breaking off. He is standing in the middle of the pantry in just his t-shirt, looking incredibly self-conscious. 

Buck gazes around quickly, grabs a large stack of banquet-sized tablecloths from the closest shelf, scatters them on the ground. He grabs another, shakes it out and spreads it across the pile. The big man moves forward, kisses him gently, slides an arm around Steve and hoists him up effortlessly. He bends a bit to grip just above the back of the smaller man's knee with his free hand and lifts, switches which arm supports his meager weight and does the same again to the other side, urging the smaller man's legs around his waist one at a time. He is careful not to rub his erection against Steve, not wanting the blonde to think he will try to enter him. 

The Soldier turns with him and drops slowly to his knees, eases Steve onto his back on the soft padding. The bigger man runs his hands gently down Steve's sides, grips the hem of his shirt, urges him to lean up a bit more so he can take it off him. Fingers both flesh and metal drag slow to the mechanic's narrow hips and outer thighs as Buck sits up, letting the blonde's feet slip from the small of his back to the sides of his waist. 

"Comfortable?" the Soldier asks softly, returning his fingers along the path they just travelled. 

Steve swallows hard, nods. 

"You are certain that this is acceptable?" Buck queries, concerned with how tense the smaller man seems.

The mechanic nods again, licks his lips. "I've never...No one has ever... And I...have some scar tissue there...I may not...feel everything. Or I might feel...too much. I don't know. But...yes. I'm sure." 

"I have no experience in this either. Please provide me direction." He rolls his fingers around to the soft, sensitive insides of Steve's parted thighs, trails them lightly down to his knees and then back. "Tell me if something feels good or is uncomfortable. I assure you I will be gentle and I will stop if you ask." 

The blonde nods a third time, eyes still a bit wide. Buck's own wander down his petite body, to his flat belly, the hint of abs there, the thin runner of sandy hair below his naval drawing the bigger man's gaze. Steve is fully hard against his lower abdomen, leaking even. That is all the convincing the Soldier needs to shimmy back, grip the smaller man's calves and lift. As Buck bends down, he brings the mechanic's legs to rest on his big shoulders and upper back. His biceps press against the backs of the blonde's thighs, elbows bent with his forearms angled in to curl fingers gently around the narrow hips. 

The Soldier presses soft kisses along the insides of his legs, mouths gently at his sack, at his perineum. Steve hums softly, then makes a shocked sound when Buck's tongue - slick in that particular way the Soldier has noticed only his is after kissing several humans - laps daintily over his hole. The bigger man does it again and again, experimentally changing the pressure, the type of movement. There are light flicks of the tip, broad laps of the whole width of it - Steve's soft comment indicates he prefers the former - as he first tries more focus over the entrance and then around the outside. The blonde's breath gets ragged when Buck runs the tip of his tongue clockwise in slow, firm circles, mimicking the movement Steve's fingers have made on him. 

"That's...That's really good," Steve barely manages, back arching.

Buck repeats the movement for a while, occasionally stopping to flick his tongue over the entrance in the way the blonde indicated he liked earlier. Soon the little mechanic is trembling under his hands, moaning, tilting his hips up. The Soldier moves one hand behind himself, copies the motions of his tongue on his own hole, groaning. He feels the smaller man adjust, looks up to see him resting on his forearms, shoulders and upper back curled off the ground and head lifted. The sea-blue eyes flick from Buck's own to the metal arm bent back around him. The smaller man moans louder at seeing him obviously pleasuring himself. Steve had already gotten him so wet and he badly wants to be entered again. He has a thought, tilts his head up to more fully look at the smaller man, who is flushed and panting. 

"May I put my tongue inside you?" he whispers. 

A brief pause and then another nod. Steve's mouth hangs open, his eyebrows lifted in the center. He looks ravaged and helpless in the most beautiful way, lost to what the Soldier is doing for him. Buck returns to the slow circles, the light flicks, increasing the speed and pressure of both before sliding his tongue into Steve. The blonde's hips buck and he whimpers. When the brunette looks up, the mechanic's head is hanging back, exposing his delicate neck, his thrumming pulse tantalizingly visible. He repeats the series of movements again and again, copying them on himself with his fingers. Circle, flick, circle, thrust. The Soldier groans each time he penetrates himself.

"Buck, Buck, that's so good. That's so..." Steve interrupts himself with a long, high moan. He looks up again, making eye contact briefly, before turning his attention to Buck's metal arm. "Are you...are you...inside yourself?" 

Buck makes an affirmative groan, thrusting his tongue in the blonde several times to ensure his answer is understood, filling himself now with two fingers.

"Fuck," Steve whimpers. "Buck, I want...I want..." 

The Soldier raises his eyebrows, stares at the blonde hard, but does not stop the movement of his mouth. _Tell me_, his expression says. 

"I want to be in you. I want you to ride me," the mechanic practically whispers, cheeks getting even more red. 

Buck buries his tongue in Steve deeper, presses his lips to the puckered skin, groans hard to let the smaller feel the vibration. He slips another finger in himself as he curves the tip of his tongue, flicking over the sensitive spot in the blonde as he works the one in himself, making both of them wail. The Soldier is loose and so slick, aching with want after what Steve has requested. He pulls back from between the slender thighs as he removes his fingers from himself, then sits up on his haunches. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his flesh hand, he knee-walks forward, swings first one leg and then the other wide to straddle the narrow hips. Then Buck presses his weight into his shins and the tops of his feet, lifting up high to make room for Steve's cock beneath him. Taking it in his slick metal hand he gives it several slow strokes, pulling a delicious sound from the smaller man. He looks the blonde dead in the face as he stops touching him. When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly.

"I am ready. Put yourself inside me." 

It is as much a plea as a command and the mechanic eagerly obliges, gripping his shaft and guiding himself to the Soldier's entrance. His other hand clutches the bigger man's side, urges him gradually down as Steve slightly lifts his hips. The blonde breaches him slow, both of them making the same high, surprised noises as the first time he had entered him. Buck starts to push down rapidly and the blonde grips his hips, tries to prevent his motion.

"Stop! That'll hurt you," he whispers urgently. The Soldier stills. "Nice and slow at first. There's no rush." The mechanic smiles, rubs gentle circles over Buck's hip bones with his thumbs. "They're twenty floors away by now probably. And if they walk in on us, oh well." His grin turns hungry, makes the brunette swallow hard.

Buck returns to the careful pace of his previous descent, watching Steve's face scrunch up as he is slowly enveloped by the bigger man's body. The blonde's shoulders and head drop back on the floor and he makes a little, overwhelmed sound in his throat when he is completely inside. The brunette lifts up slow, eases down again, repeating the motion until the stretch feels less intense and no longer borders on discomfort. He is strong, with incredible stamina, and does not even need to rest his hands anywhere. As he pistons his legs, he lightly grazes his fingertips over Steve. The mechanic moans under him, clutching at him, eyes moving occasionally from Buck's to the place where they are joined when the Soldier lifts up. 

It is amazing for Buck, to feel so in control simultaneously of his own pleasure and his partner's. He finds just the right speed, depth, position that makes his body light up, lost in the smell and sound and feel of Steve beneath him and inside him. The physical exertion of climbing the building had barely increased his pulse or respiration, but now his heart is pounding, breath coming harder. The angle is teasing the spot inside him, pushing him nearer to the edge; his sounds get loud and high, his movements faster. The blonde must be able to tell he is close - he grips Buck's hips, rocks up into him just so over and over. It makes the bigger man wail, his head going back, eyes glowing so bright he can see them reflected on the tin ceiling. He goes still as he finishes, letting Steve fuck up into him as he gets tighter, as his entire body seems to pulse. The smaller man spills inside him seconds later with a guttural moan. 

After they have cleaned up, Buck cannot resist being close, pressing into the smaller man's side. He lays his head on Steve's chest and listens to his heart pound, thinking about how _he_ had caused that.

"I greatly enjoy pleasuring you," he says softly, fingers running lightly over all that soft, exposed skin. 

"Ditto," Steve says, twisting and stretching a bit to kiss the brunette's forehead. Buck had learned that term from context a long while ago. Originally he had known it only to mean a worksheet. They had given him dittos for certain things, in the facility, in the beginning when he was regaining his literacy. 

"I apologize." 

"For what?" the blonde moves in a way where his head is farther back and he can see Buck's face.

"Perhaps you have felt...pressure to..." He refrains from saying _sodomize me_. "To have sexual intercourse with me. Both times I have exhibited emotional distress beforehand. The time with the brush as well." 

Steve sighs, but it is thoughtful, not annoyed. "I mean, I can definitely hear Gurminder saying sex isn't a replacement for romantic intimacy...but...Connecting like this has been... amazing. Important. I mean, you make me feel so comfortable with my body and...being affectionate and that's helped me in so many other ways. Like, reminded me of parts of myself I'd forgot. Don't ever think it's just you getting something out of it emotionally or that I don't want and like all of it just as much. It's a big deal for me, to be naked with someone, to do the things we do, to let you do what you did to me today especially."

"Then you...enjoyed my mouth?"

Steve chuckles softly. "I'm pretty sure you could tell that already." 

"I would very much like to do it again in the future." 

"Sure. Just...ask first, okay?" 

"Of course. Have I... overstepped in any other way? Stopped asking permission or waiting for your direction for things you would still like discussed?" Buck leans up, eyes Steve seriously.

"Not at all. You've been very understanding and patient." 

"I would never want to do anything to hurt you, little mechanic." He puts a big hand on the center of the narrow chest, thinking of the pain he had felt there when Steve had left. He would never want to inflict that on the smaller man.

"I know, Buck," the blonde says softly. There is a comfortable silence between them for a few moments, the Soldier moving to rest his head again. "Buck? Will you...tell me why you were so upset earlier? Please." 

"I am...too embarrassed," he whispers. "You will think poorly of me. Of what I have done." 

"Do you know what Catholicism is?" Steve asks softly, stroking his hair.

"A widespread religious practice."

"Yeah. My mother was Catholic. There's...a lot of bad things about religion. Especially that one. But there are good things too. In Catholicism, you confess things you've done or thought or felt that you think are bad, in private, to just one person. Okay, technically to God too, but I don't know if I believe in that... Anyway, the confessing part I think is good. It lets you release things you keep bottled up inside. So you can feel better about yourself, so you can acknowledge that the action or thought or feeling was just one little part of you and not the whole of who you are. So the weight of all those things doesn't build up and hold you down. You understand?"

Buck nods against him.

"You can also just talk about things you're struggling with. And the other person won't judge you."

"Can you...give an example?" Buck asks quietly.

"At the movies, I had this...episode. I started to have all these bad thoughts...about myself. Memories of things that happened before seemed to...overlap with what was real. I even thought I saw..." He hesitates. "Brock, next to me in the dark." Buck stiffens at the name, slides his arm protectively around the blonde. "I felt really awful, unworthy, unlovable."

Buck jerks back, eyes Steve intently. "You are very easy to love. Very worthy." 

"You are too. I want you to know that," the blonde says softly. Buck does not respond, hides his face as the mechanic continues. "I understand what it's like to have things in your head that work against you, that haunt you, tell you you're not good enough. Voices that you can't easily shut off. You don't have to tell me what happened here, but...know that you can if you want to. I won't think less of you."

Buck sits up suddenly. "The others are a few floors up." 

Steve slowly rises, stretches. "Time to put our dicks away." 

"They have already seen mine," the Soldier says matter of factly. 

That makes Steve laugh loud. The sound melts more of the remnants of the cold thing lingering inside him. Perhaps if he confesses, it will dissolve the rest.


	58. Stairway to heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has some concerns about the future.

After a few moments of Steve and Buck searching the pantry in silence, the bigger man tells his companion he dreads entering the penthouse. The mechanic assures him they can stay in any of the other dozens of rooms, but the brunette insists it is the most secure location - he will not risk the smaller man's safety for his own comfort. As his earlier work had shown, the shutters were not indestructible and this storm was already very intense - the building rocks with the force of it and they can hear the constant pounding of the rain, the scrape of things being pushed around outside, the thud of debris kicked up against the building. 

The Soldier finds some bulk dry goods hidden deep under a low table, behind a mess of haphazardly placed carts and empty boxes. There's a fifty pound bag of rice, large sacks of beans, dried mushrooms and chilis. They're dusty but not damaged and their expiration date isn't terribly important given their preservation method - it's enough to feed their small group for weeks, months if rationed. Someone had probably intended to return here but the plague or a hundred other dangers had gotten them first. They move it to the lobby on a cart, along with a little pile of other useful things. Being selective is important since the water pumps will take up so much room; they can only weight the truck down so much before it overly affects handling and speed. 

How to transport the Soldiers is a whole other matter they'll need to discuss in more detail later. Steve fears Buck will want to keep them at the hotel, away from Claptrap and in the virtually impenetrable (inescapable) fortress of the penthouse. He feels a tightness in his chest at the thought it may not be possible for him to stay with the brunette if that is what he decides. Certainly if a Soldier were awake - really awake - and not near to Buck's level of self-control, Steve would be a dangerous temptation. He had watched the bigger man wrestle with his need many times when they were close, even saw it sometimes when Luis was around. 

The hotel would also provide ample space for prisoners. Buck had killed three grown men, then taken a bit from multiple others after he'd been burned. The blonde can only guess at how much twenty three of them would need to recover from a weakened state. And that was its own question, their state - what had Brock meant by non-operational? Were they still frozen, were they simply immobile without the right commands? The second thought is horrible. Could they really stand in place for years with no sustenance, gathering dust, slowly wasting away? 

Buck had no idea how long it would take him to starve to death, if he even could, at what point his healing factor would give out entirely. The longest stretch they had made him go without any blood while he had the limiter was two months and he had remained largely operational, though tests by his superiors revealed decreased speed, strength, muscle mass and reaction time. Without the control chip he had lasted five days. Any longer and he feared the need would start to take over, a thing he desperately did not want. 

There are other complications to the delicate and dangerous situation. For one, when the limiter is removed they will essentially go from non-sentient slaves to self-aware prisoners. Even a person good in their core who knows they are being helped would chafe under that, distrust it, lash out. The blonde certainly knows he would. A lovely cage is still just that. Being told it's for your own good is little comfort.

He'd felt the sentiment sometimes in his cozy nest with Jack, despite how well he was treated and the many freedoms afforded to him after years of being almost totally denied agency. He wondered, not for the first time, if the scarred man had lived and Steve had asked to leave him after Brock and the others were dead, would Jack have allowed it. Today he thinks well of the man and decides, yes, he would have, but there are other times he isn't so sure. Whatever affection he had would have evaporated had that been the case, no matter how comfortable he was made, no matter what was promised to him.

On top of that the Soldiers will be ravenous at first, confused, terrified. It could take them months or ever years to regain something like a personality, a moral compass, free will that operated outside of the constant shadow of the need. Maybe he's been foolish, naive, to think even with Buck to guide them they will have any idea what to do. He pushes it from his mind for now. They have days to talk it over. Seeing the intense guilt the big man feels for his past actions, the way he so often seems to collapse in on himself with the weight of being what he is, makes the blonde certain they have to free the others. 

"This fancy ass place is really built like a brick shithouse," Clint announces, barging into the pantry. "Greta thought there was a problem when you didn't answer, so I started heading down, but once we were more than a few floors apart I couldn't reach her either so I realized it was just the walkies with these thick concrete floors. I went back and let her know. Fury should have given us some of the communicators like he gave the ex-ops folks. Those things work for hundreds of miles, through just about anything. Hill already wandered off to give him a mission report while we were fucking around." 

"Something wrong?" Steve queries, concerned.

"We need Buck. The penthouse door is...well, I don't even know how to describe it." 

"Would you like me to carry you back up the stairs?" Buck asks softly, gazing down at the blonde, after they're back in the lobby. 

Steve smiles shyly, noticing the archer's expression at the question. "No, I'm...I'm good. Why don't you go help the others. I'll walk up with Clint." 

The Soldier sighs hard through his nose. 

"You don't have to go in without me," the blonde assures him, putting a hand lightly on his arm. The bigger man nods and heads off. They hear him leaping up the stairs for a few brief moments before he's too far away for the sound to travel. 

"Why doesn't he want to go in? What Jasper said to him?" Clint's brows furrow at the mention of the ex-ops. 

"I don't know. He seemed to get spooked earlier, when we were all outside. He practically ran up the side of a building naked to get away from me." Steve frowns.

"Maybe he could feel that creepy little four-eyed bastard staring. I don't like the way he looks at you. And don't think Buck hasn't noticed. That could go south veeeery quickly. Maybe he'll eat him!" The archer shows his teeth like Dracula in a cheesy late night cable film and mock growls.

"Buck _was_ pretty upset when we first came down here."

"Funny, he didn't look too shook when he came up to whisk you down the stairs." The archer cocks an eyebrow. 

"Whaddaya mean?" Steve asks innocently. 

"I saw your cozy little tablecloth bed in there and your hair is all fucked up in the back." Clint reaches over to fix it and the smaller man lightly slaps him away, smooths it himself. "He totally boned you."

"No he did not, thank you very much." The blonde tries to sound very affronted, but it comes out embarrassed. He's gotten soft on Clint, for sure. After a dramatic pause he adds confidently, "I _boned_ him." 

"Well, good for you, Stevie. _Haaaass he boned you though_?" 

"That's totally none of your business." He again doesn't manage to come off as actually angry. It's more like a Victorian lady who's had her honor questioned. 

"I just think that's like...a good metric of your emotional recovery...or something, if you did that. Not that I don't get it if you haven't. Or don't. But we could swap tips on what positions we like it in!" The archer elbows him softly as the mechanic rolls his eyes. "So, was this the first time you did it or...?"

"We've been doing....hand stuff for a while and then.....the other night, after the movie..." Steve trails off, looks up at the ceiling and waggles his head back and forth a bit. 

"I wondered where you two got off to. Literally got off, it seems." 

"We....did it in the pantry."

"**You did what?**" Clint stops and practically yells. 

"I fucked him on the bread table, okay!" Steve blurts out.

"You're a wild man!" The archer claps him on the shoulder - the mechanic shakes his head but doesn't jerk away. It occurs to him as they start climbing again how many times they've casually touched lately. He supposes he has made a lot of progress. 

"Does that make me fucked up? Like...abnormal or something? Just...going at in kitchen storage." The blonde makes an uncharacteristically unsure face. 

"Hell no! It's hot. It means you're like, both super eager to get it on and can't wait. I wish I was having _pantrics_ with my wife."

"If I talk to you about something, can you not be **you** about it?" Steve's a bit winded now. They've made it up seven stories and man, he's regretting not accepting Buck's offer. Clint, the bastard, isn't phased. 

"_Rude,_" the archer smirks. "What's up, kiddo?"

"My hair is messed up because I _was_ on my back earlier....But because he asked if he could....do stuff to me with....his mouth." He gets redder, and it isn't from the exertion. 

"I'm assuming you don't mean a blowjob or you'd just say that. He rimmed you?" 

Steve just nods. 

"And? He like...needs pointers? Because for the record, I'm not practicing that with him." The archer makes double finger guns as they round the landing on yet another floor. 

"No! It was...really good, actually. I've just....never let anyone near _there_ since....And I never thought I would. Not even him, but then he asked like...." He pauses, blushing even harder. "His voice and the way he phrased it and the way he looked at me..." Steve shivers. "I would have said yes to almost anything."

"I totally feel that. You've seen some of the crazy shit Nat has talked me into. Even got me to kiss you with that!" He reaches over and playfully scratches Steve's beard. 

"Well, now I'm thinking...maybe, eventually, I'd kind of want to try other things. And I'm wondering...where to start. Because I've never....had someone do any of that stuff to me. Like....with hands."

"Well, I mean, I'm assuming you do that stuff to Buck? I'm assuming you weren't a prick and just jammed in your prick."

"Of course not. I mean yes, I did. Not jam my prick in I mean. The other thing..." the blonde stammers. 

"You fingered your boyfriend. Jesus, Stevie, you can say it. _You fucked him on some bread after all._"

"Yes. I have fingered him, but I _moved the bread first_. I'm not a total savage." Steve finally manages to sound rankled. 

"You're a freak and I love you and if my wife ever leaves me, I'll be knocking on your door. But you have to shave. And grow tits." Clint grins wider, then gets a bit more serious. "Have you ever touched yourself there at all?"

"No," Steve says quietly. 

"Well, I think that's step number one. You can't tell him what you like if you don't know."

"Okay. What's step two?" 

"Toys," the bigger man says like it's obvious.

"Huh?" 

"Putting objects in your rectum," Clint says very seriously, like a cop explaining why he pulled someone over.

"Uhhhaaahhhh..." Steve is sure he must be maroon now.

"Was that English?" 

"Step three? What's step three?" He changes the subject, tries not to think about the hairbrush in Buck's bag.

"Talk to your boyfriend about what you want, idiot."

"I don't know. I don't...I don't want him to anticipate stuff happening that maybe won't, you know? If I let him...finger me...and he tries to take that farther? What if he doesn't..." Steve trails off.

"Take no for an answer?" 

The blonde doesn't say anything, just gets wide eyed and half nods. 

"Has Buck ever done anything to you that you didn't want or been anything less than respectful?" 

"No." 

"Focus on that. If you try things...alone...and aren't into it, maybe it's not for you. But if it is, just remember that if anything happens with him, he'll listen. He'll stop. He wouldn't hurt you. Fuck, I think he'd rather die first." Clint throws a companionable arm around the blonde. "I get it. I get why you're scared and you don't have to push yourself. But if you do, my best piece of advice is..." He looks very sternly at Steve. "Lots of lube." 

"Look at this. A straight guy giving a bi guy advice on butt stuff. It's a brave new world." The mechanic grins, throws his arm around the bigger man's waist. "Thanks, Clint. For everything." 

"Of course, baby brother."

They walk most of the rest of the way in comfortable silence. 

"Holy fucking Christ!" Steve yelps as they reach the top of the stairs.

The thing there isn't so much a door as it is a vault entrance, six feet wide and fifteen feet high. Buck is _pushing_ it. He's straining, growling even, but it's slowly moving. It has to weigh several thousand pounds and be designed to resist an attacking force, but he's _fucking pushing it_. The mechanic suddenly realizes the gravity of what they plan to do, the repercussions of there being twenty-four people in the world capable of that. For the first time since Jack died, he prays. When it finally slides open enough to see inside, they all gasp.


	59. The garden of Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forbidden things await in the penthouse.

They were prepared for a small armed contingent protecting some drug lord with hundreds of crates of canned goods and a harem of his favorite call girls (or boys). Or a random staff member, now crazy, locked away there for years with no one else, mind slowly decaying as they lived off military rations. Perhaps even a dictator from some other country with a stake in American real estate, a faction of his military police holed up there with him after flying in on a private jet. Lord knows between them they had walked in on all those scenarios and more since the collapse. 

Certainly this was way too good of a hiding place to be unused, even with the weather, especially for someone who had the money to buy this type of building after the previous owner's demise. They could afford to stock it with enough non-perishables for decades if they could purchase something this fancy. They'd never need to go outside again. Buck also informed them that the absurd door was new, an extreme upgrade over what had already been there. At the best, they expect it to be filled with corpses, perhaps victims of the plague or just of the confined space. Even the best of friends, lovers, could turn into enemies trapped inside a finite area with no way out. 

What they aren't expecting is for the place to be completely devoid of bodies - living or dead - and untouched. It's spotlessly clean, plates set out on the table with a tablecloth that probably cost more than some of them made in a month before the collapse, everything tidy and in its place like the maids were waiting for the boss to come home. Yellowish storm light pours in through the floor to ceiling, indestructible windows as they're coated with sheets of rain. It shows off tasteful furnishings accenting a mostly open floor plan with a large, well-stocked bar against one wall and a massive kitchen. There are no window treatments because, as they had all noticed from the street, you could not see in from outside. The view is incredible, even through the harsh precipitation. 

It's absolutely gorgeous, and one of the few places any of them have been in years that smells truly clean. The amount of effort that must have went into sanitizing the place to the point there were not even any particles in the air to settle into dust would have been immense. It must have had its own air filtration system of some kind at one point, and no one had been here to track anything in (or shed skin, since the dry flakes were what made up a lot of household dust) since it had went down. A tasteful wood block calendar - the kind with little cubes that are rotated to show the proper number - reveals that no one has been here since before the collapse, at least no one who cared to update it.

After long moments of staring around in wonder, they branch out with their firearms at the ready to search the attached rooms. All save Steve, who notices that the Soldier is still lingering in the doorway. He turns and gives the bigger man a sympathetic smile, moves to step towards him. Buck holds up a hand to ward him off, then cautiously peeks his head farther into the space and takes a long look around. After a full minute, he slowly steps in.

"It looks nothing like before," he says with obvious relief. 

Steve smiles wider, reaches out and carefully takes his hand. "That was really something, with the door. How do you manage not to crush things on accident?" The blonde gives his fingers a playful squeeze.

"I do not remember ever being different physically than this. That probably made it easier for me to adapt than if I recalled how my body functioned before." He brings the small man's hand up to his lips, gently kisses his knuckles. "You have noticed that I have very good fine motor skills, even on delicate things." 

Steve gives him a dopey smile before glancing over his shoulder. The massive vault door has a series of thick metal rods down its edge that have drawn mostly back inside of it. He can see around the frame that there are openings where they would enter to seal it shut.

"Was it unlocked?" The mechanic, curious, steps closer to examine it, fingers still linked with the bigger man. 

"No. Jasper was able to attach a device which gave power to the keypad and allowed him to discern the combination. Without the electrical grid or the backup generators, I still had to open it manually after he disengaged the locks." 

"Why would he have that? He thinks we're going to get water pumps out of a factory." Steve whispers it very quietly, so that only the Soldier can hear. 

"It was fortuitous. I do not believe I would have been able to get it open otherwise." 

The others all emerge, save Clint. They hear him call from a side room, voice so high and wild it sends them all into a panic, running to the doorway with their weapons drawn. It is the only room with no windows, a large pantry stocked floor to ceiling with all manner of packaged and non-perishable foods. There are things in jars and tins, canned goods, cheese coated fully in rinds, bottles of various oils. Most of it is foreign or extremely high-end brands. The room must be perfectly insulated, because it is a cooler temperature and the air feels different than the room outside.

The archer actually squirts a few tears as he hugs a massive wheel of cheese. 

"This is the single greatest day of my life," he hoarsely whispers, before bending down to kiss the wax protecting his prize. 

His wife rolls her eyes, but then spies a jar of marinated mushrooms, the label in Cyrillic. She's in them like a shot, groaning as she jams several into her mouth and mumbles something that sounds like Russian. Soon they are all grabbing a snack from the massive stockpile, even Hill showing a glimmer of excitement as she breaks into a tin of octopus marinated in a spicy tomato sauce. After Buck seals the door, they spend hours going through the place. 

In addition to having a massive master bedroom with a custom-made bed that is even bigger than a king size, there are multiple other large bedrooms. Every bed is made up with expensive sheets and silk brocade comforters. There are a variety of items in each as if the owner was expecting guests, including thick, fluffy bathrobes, but nothing in the closets. The master has a walk-in half filled with high-end men's and women's clothing. Nat, Win and Clint play dress up, while Luis and Steve jump up and down on the massive bed. 

Hill sets herself up on a chaise lounge with a book as Sitwell starts going through every scrap of paper in the large personal office. Greta breaks into the wine - there's an entire little room of it, once perfectly temperature controlled - and after some cajoling gets Coulson to join her, heading off to one of the guest rooms alone. They all practically shit their pants when the overhead lights come on, running into the main room all at once.

"I did not want to ruin the surprise," Buck says as he emerges from a small utility room on the side. 

He explains that there is a massive state of the art solar array stored in a sub-floor between the penthouse and the upper dome, rigged with sensors that tell it to eject the panels and fold them down when weather conditions are ideal. The system has continued operating all on its own with no one here, a bank of batteries both fueling it and storing the power that it creates. The penthouse also has its own fully electric hot water heaters and the dome's downspouts are designed to divert and filter water into storage tanks. While the filtration system is not operational for drinking water, they can use the running water and heat it up.

A lot of them are unabashedly excited to take a shit in an actual toilet for the first time in years. They all take long, hot showers, some of them with their partners and some of them alone. It was far too much of a hassle to rig up that type of running water in Claptrap, or to heat it, not to mention wasteful. The aquifer only has so much. Buck had quietly requested that he and Steve take a bath instead of a shower - the master bedroom has a huge tub in its private bathroom. 

After they are settled in, facing each other, the big man bends forward and low as he hands the blonde a drinking glass he has brought from the kitchen. The mechanic smiles, remembering their time in the Green Place tubs, and soaks the Soldier's hair. He lathers it vigorously with an appropriately lavender scented shampoo, rubs his scalp in soft circles. They discover that the big tub has jacuzzi jets, and sit side by side with their legs tangled together and Steve leaned against the bigger man's chest as they let it run for a long while. It's definitely romantic, the lights dimmed and a few random candles lit, but it's been a long, hard journey and they both fall asleep. 

The blonde wakes up first, eases slowly away from the bigger man and then out of the tub. He watches him sleep for a bit. Buck must be truly exhausted after all his exertion, because Steve has only managed to move away from him a few times while he was asleep and not had him wake. There are all sorts of fancy lotions and bath oils on a shelf nearby. The mechanic has a thought suddenly, bites his lip. He takes a bottle labeled unscented massage oil and then makes himself comfortable on the edge of the sink across the big room. It's behind a partial wall, shielded from the tub. 

Rubbing the oil between his hands to warm it, he tries not to make too much noise. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it  
out slow in a calming exercise he'd learned years ago. His hand slowly goes low, between his parted thighs. The first graze of the fingertips against him makes him jump a little bit, even though they are his own and he knew they were approaching. Steve can feel a few fine runners of scar tissue there, is momentarily embarrassed that his boyfriend would have felt them with his mouth even though he had warned the bigger man about them. 

It's just awkward at first, weird and somehow shameful. He stops, sighs. When he slowly starts to move again he tries thinking about the things that he had done to Buck that the bigger man seemed to enjoy, stroking lightly up and down for a while at first. The sensation becomes less odd, but it isn't particularly _doing anything_ for him. He tries the slow circles around the outside instead, something that seems to drive the Soldier crazy. That's definitely better, and after a bit he can't help but think about the way the brunette had mimicked it with his tongue. 

That gets him going. He tries to remember in intense detail the way that Buck's mouth had moved on him, copies it - slow circles punctuated by the occasional light stroke over the center. His breath picks up and his face flushes as he spreads his legs farther, ever so slightly widening the middle of the pucker. That makes him even more sensitive there, the feeling even more intense. Steve stifles a little sound as it tries to come out of him, feels himself hard against his belly. He takes his hand away, applies what is probably far too much oil, then goes back to his previous ministrations. 

He mirrors what Buck had done, after he'd started putting in his tongue, alternating circling the puckered outside, light flicks over the center and (shallowly) penetrating himself. At first it's just the tip of his finger, but he's so slick from the oil more goes in with limited resistance. There's a moment of panic when he gets in to the second knuckle - his insides revolt, muscles clamping down, a wave of nausea and fear hitting him. He takes slow, calming breaths again and after a few moments his body relaxes enough to ease in fully. 

It's a strange and utterly new feeling, being penetrated painlessly, intentionally. His touch is just exploratory at first, almost clinical. He can feel more scar tissue there, a few small areas that are numb or where the sensation is _off_ somehow. It's disappointing to think that he can do this mentally but physically isn't getting much out of it. About to give up, he curls his finger experimentally. It finds his prostate and a hot bolt rocks through him. He stills, gasping - it's good but way too much. When he moves again, he carefully rubs over the area much more lightly, slow and rhythmic. 

"Oooohhhh..." he lets out softly, eyes squeezing shut. 

It makes his insides boil in the most delightful way, everything from naval to mid-thigh tingling, hot, roiling. He does it for a long time, feels himself pushed to the precipice and just hanging there, but it doesn't quite send him over. Finally, almost desperate for release, he strokes himself quick with his other hand. He cums fast, shoving his mouth against his shoulder to muffle himself. Buck stirs in the tub and calls out to him. 

"I'm coming," he says appropriately, as he cleans up the mess with the softest towel he's ever touched.


	60. Black holes and revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang talk about the past.

The gang lay out bedspreads in the middle of the main room, near the electric fire place, around a massive spread of snacks on the hard wood floor. They're all in bath robes and little to nothing else except Jasper and Hill - the former still in his inexplicably well-kept clothes and the latter in a pair of full length men's pajamas. The robe is too large on Steve, hanging nearly to his ankles with his hands totally covered, but the even shorter Win and Nat pilfered the few smaller ones. Greta and Phil are quite stoned, giggling at literally everything. Luis and Clint smoke some too - after they shotgun Sitwell for the fourth time, the bespectacled man finally grabs the joint in annoyance and gingerly puffs it. 

Buck's sleeves are not quite long enough and the bottom hem comes just to his knees, his long, muscular legs crossed in front of him. There's very little he can eat of the bounty other than plain vegetables - he snacks on a can of organic, unsalted green beans while the rest gorge on all manner of delicacies, most of them heavily imbibing as well. He likes watching them, relaxed and laughing. It's one of the few times, other than during sexual activity, he sees the little mechanic look totally unburdened.

"Yer not drinking anything?" the mechanic asks Clint, surprised, as he returns from the bar with another round for himself and the girls on a tray. 

"I, uhh, haven't been doing that. Since our fight."

"Aww, man," Steve plops down next to him, sets the tray in the middle of the floor for everyone to reach, then puts an arm around his broad upper back. The blonde is warm and sloppy from a good amount of whiskey. "Dat wus...that was my fault. You were just tryin' to be a goo'wingman. And I wuz...I wus a dick." 

"No, it's..." The archer trails off, looks serious suddenly. "I hit you. _Really hit you_. Tackled you. I could have hurt you bad. I'm the dick. I'm...a terrible person." 

"What?! No! You're the best person. Tell him he's the best person everyone!" the blonde insists.

Most of them offer their praise and encouragement and the small man shakes him lightly. "I love you, big brother." 

Clint puts his face in his hands and sobs. Steve looks with surprise to the others. Win raises a hand, and her brows, in a _what the fuck_ gesture and the mechanic shrugs his free shoulder, looks at Nat.

"Babe, maybe we should go in our room for a bit. Lay down." The redhead starts to get up.

"No!" he half-chokes, leaning his head on Steve. "I'm sorry kiddo."

"Fer what, dude? You... You always put up with my shit. I wus...never nice enough to you before. Thas all differen' now." The blonde smiles at him. "I'm gon be the best little brother ever." 

"I don't deserve that!" Clint practically growls, wiping tears from his face with the back of his hand. "I'm a piece of shit. You don't even know. None of you know."

"Hey, we've all done fucked up things to survive," Luis offers.

"It's not about that. Before, before everything, I was garbage. I was the best at one thing for a lot of years, won all those medals. You probably wouldn't think it, but there was a lot of money. Endorsements, fame. Everybody wanted to shake my hand or take a selfie with me or give me their number from the time I was barely more than a kid. Everyone wanted to buy me a drink, and I always said yes. Until there was nothing else. Until I was a dumb, shitfaced asshole more than not, fucking up my career, pissing off my friends, screwing around on my wife." 

"Wife?" Steve can't help but breathe out, face twisted in shock. He looks at Nat - her eyes are blank, as they so often are.

"Which is why when she got sick, she was living in some totally different part of the city from me. By the time I got to her on foot through the snarls of traffic, she was..." He lets out a wavering, groaning sob. "So I went to my parents, to the big fucking house that I bought them with the high wall and the huge gate. We holed up there, me and my kid brother, Thomas, stealing whatever we could from the empty houses nearby. Then the big fire happened while we were asleep. The wind was high and it swept in after it took half the block. The whole city went up eventually. Then it was just me and Tommy." 

His big hands are shaking badly. Steve reaches over and takes one of them, pulls it onto his own lap, squeezes it tight. The room is utterly silent. 

"Me and him, we heard the cities farther south had safe havens, military support. We made it pretty far down the coast, but then we had to cut farther inland because of the storms. We hadn't really run into too much trouble on the road. People were still so shell shocked, and looting was so easy - the bug reduced the population so quick and there was so much to take everywhere, they weren't really coming after each other much yet, at least where we'd been. We ran into a few tough guys, but nothing we couldn't handle. Tommy wasn't big but he was a scrapper."

His grip on Steve's hand tightens, tears flowing freely now as he keeps talking. 

"Then we got close to the city here, on the highway, in the big jam we saw earlier. People came out of nowhere, a couple dozen of them, and just started shooting at us. They snagged us both, dragged us back to some random little house in the suburbs. They took Tommy out of the room, and I heard him screaming for so long. Screaming, begging, yelling my name and _big brother, big brother_ over and over. I tried and tried to get free but I couldn't. Then he was quiet." He grits his teeth, rocks slightly forward and back, looking at nothing. 

"That wasn't your fault," Steve almost whispers.

"When he was born, when they put him in my arms for the first time, they said to me _a big brother has one job - to protect his little brother._ I fucking failed him. I failed him over and over again for years. I didn't let him hang out with me. I acted like I didn't want him around. I barely talked to him once I moved out. I had only seen him three times the year before it happened."

The blonde makes a sympathetic face, but sits quietly, waiting. 

"Then it was my turn. They untied me, other than my hands behind my back, and they took me out into the garage. And I saw his skinny little body, in his favorite t-shirt, with his pants and underwear ripped off, hung upside down from the rafters, bleeding out into a bucket. He was only twenty-one years old." Clint makes a face like he might vomit, but continues. "I head butted one of the assholes, managed to run off, cut the rope on some sharp metal in a backyard. I was just running at first, ducking into houses, and then I found her. Cecilia." 

His face hardens, his tears stop. "And then I was hiding, but not because I was afraid. I laid in wait, and I got them. One by one I got them and strung them up for their friends to find, until there were so many they stopped even taking the bodies down. Until there were none left _to_ take them down. So that's me. That's the waste product I am."

They all just stare, quiet. Steve puts his head on the bigger man's shoulder.

"I killed fifty-seven people when I was in the field," Jasper says, cutting the silence. "Headshots mostly." 

They all turn to look at him.

"Then one day I was given a dossier that just didn't sit right with me. You don't question the chain of command, you don't question orders, but something was off and I just couldn't place it. So I did some research, surveillance, and it turned out that the woman wasn't a terrorist. She was a school teacher and the only thing that she had done was speak out against her oppressive government. She was getting so much coverage on social media, they were afraid to do anything about it themselves, so they called my boss, greased his palm, got her added to my list." 

Sitwell takes a big hit off the joint, holds it, blows the smoke out slowly through his nose.

"So I killed him instead. I made it look like an accident, an air bubble from a syringe injected into the bloodstream. Then I took his job so I got to pick the names. When I went through his files, I realized nearly a third of the people that he had sent me after had never done anything wrong except piss off a rich and powerful person." 

"I never liked you, but I always respected you. You never told me to kill anyone that didn't deserve it," Nat offers. It's her turn to get everyone's attention. "My other handlers, especially overseas, were less...scrupulous." 

"I have killed many undeserving people," Buck nearly whispers. 

"You didn't have a choice though," the blonde says in rebuttal, then offers to the rest, "I built a suitcase bomb and blew up a former military operative and his entire war council. He had his own little army, did whatever the fuck he wanted to whoever he wanted. I blew most of them them up too, with a truck full of explosives. I got some people killed in the process that arguably didn't deserve it," Steve states directly.

"When Fury told me you blew up the guy that held you hostage, I think I loved you a little bit right then," Jasper says calmly, shocking everyone. Steve's cheeks redden and it isn't from the alcohol, his eyes going wide. "I'm sorry. I'm really stoned. I shouldn't have said that." He leans back far into the plush chair he's sitting in, like he's trying to hide, then suddenly snaps forward again. "You weren't right before. I didn't talk to you about overhearing you because I got a thrill out of it. I did it because I hoped you would be embarrassed or uncomfortable and stop, or at least attempt to hide it. Very selfish and stupid to be jealous over someone you couldn't admit to liking, even to yourself, being happy with someone else. And... I'm sorry, Buck. About what I said this morning. That was hypocritical of me. Steven is right. You had no choice. **I** did." His brow furrows.

"I accept your apology. But also, if you touch Steve, I will rip your arms off," the Soldier says calmly.

Jasper actually laughs at that, soft at first and then long and loud. "You don't have to worry about that. Look, I know how I seem to people. Odd. Creepy. I'm...on the autism spectrum. I have a hard time pretending to be like everyone else. Constantly thinking about how my actions seem to others is exhausting and while I get what feelings are, I have a hard time reading them from other people. After being in charge for so long, I guess I stopped bothering to try at all. I just did whatever I wanted, even if I had some idea it was unsettling." He passes the joint to the archer. 

"I have ADHD," Clint offers, tokes, passes it to Steve. 

"Depending on which childhood therapist you ask, oppositional-defiant disorder, anti-social personality disorder, blind rage syndrome or - my personal favorite - intermittent explosive disorder. Very foreshadowing, that one. And now, post-traumatic stress disorder including symptoms of depression and mild to moderate panic attacks." Clint grins and gives him a clap. Some of the others join in. "Thank you, thank you," the mechanic says, doing a little bow. He takes a light drag, passes it to Greta. 

"I didn't deal with my social anxiety for years," Greta chimes in. "Cut myself off from everyone. Then I found weed. And you kids." She inhales deep, hands it off to Phil.

"PTSD, too. Three tours overseas before I joined Fury's team as a mission coordinator," Coulson says, hits it, offers it to Win. 

She looks at the lit tip, blows on it softly. "I had severe depression, after my miscarriage. I did not leave the bed almost at all, for weeks. I...tried to kill myself, with pills. That's why we came to America. My...husband wanted to get me away from all the questions, the gossip and the judgment." The welder pulls a long drag and hands the joint to Luis.

"I don't...I don't really have anything to offer like you all did. I just have...regret. A lot of it. Guilt. People I took for granted, lied to, blew off. People I hurt. People I let others hurt. I wish they could all know how sorry I am." The young man takes a few short puffs, passes it to Nat. 

"I was _taught_ to be a sociopath. It makes for a better killer. That was the thinking in the program they put me in after I was orphaned. Sometimes, it's like everything turns off inside, goes cold. I don't even know what's me and what's the training. Then I see that fucking idiot," she gestures at Clint, "and I..._feel._" 

The archer smiles, eyes glistening. It's the nicest thing she'll ever say to him in front of the others. She takes a huge hit, holds it an unbelievably long time before blowing a series of smoke rings. Maria reaches over from the chaise, takes the tiny stump that's left. 

"I'm a nymphomanic," Hill says flatly. They all go silent and stare as she finishes the joint. She turns slowly towards them and then laughs - it's the first time any of them have heard her do it. After another moment of shock, they join in. That night, they all sleep like babies, wrapped up in comfortable beds in the whitest sheets.


	61. Temptation, never lets me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up early leads to some interesting discoveries for some of the gang.

When Steve wakes it's almost completely dark outside. Before the world's weather was altered by man's behavior, a hurricane would have only affected the coast a few hours right before and after it made landfall. With the super storms, they were affecting the shore and miles inland far before they reached it with much more intensity than in the past. This one had not yet even hit the shore and yet the sky - only dimly lit on the horizon with the beginnings of sun up - was still raging. There's debris thudding off the windows and he presumed that's what woke him, but it could be the archer's snoring. He leans up a bit - in the faint glow from outside he can see Clint on the opposite edge, then Nat, Win and finally Luis piled into the giant bed with Buck and himself. 

He only vaguely recalls getting there, the bigger man carrying him and laying him out on his left side by one edge, facing towards the center of the mattress, tucking him in, stroking his face until he drifted off. Buck had settled in beside him to form a barrier between the others, knowing how much the blonde does not like to be touched unexpectedly, especially from the back. Luis' arm is draped over the brunette's waist and the mechanic has a tiny stab of jealousy. He reminds himself they were all high, and some of them drunk, when they climbed in here. Their bond already makes them touchy and, as much as it makes him insecure sometimes, it's something he'll have to learn to live with. He actually really likes Luis and thinks he's good for Win, plus it's nice to see the Soldier so comfortable with someone else. 

Buck looks beautiful asleep - lavender tinted pouty lips hanging open, dark lashes against his cheeks. His robe is just covering his crotch and not much else, twisted and pulled partially open. The blankets are tangled around his knees. The metal hand is near his face, palm down, the flesh one a fraction of an inch from Steve's lower belly, curled lightly. He can't help but think if he angled his hips up just so... The blonde shakes his head a bit, realizes he has the ghost of a hangover, but it isn't so bad. He's incredibly thirsty though. 

The former residents had thought of everything - knowing they couldn't drink the recycled water from the taps without boiling it, they had put a water dispenser - the kind with a massive, replaceable bottle and the little flip tap - next to the bathroom sink. The blonde slips away as quiet as he can. After drinking four cups full, resting on the edge of the sink, he sees the massage oil. He gets another refill, drinks it slow, eyeing the bottle, debating. Thinking about the Soldier's pecs, abs, thighs, about Buck's flesh hand so near leads to thinking about the smooth ridges on his metal fingers and how much the bigger man liked them inside himself. 

**Fuck.**

Had he been this much of a hornball when he was younger? Before Brock, before the road, the collapse, the bug, had sweet, quiet, nerdy, intensely angry Steven Grant Rogers had a big sex drive? It was hard to remember really. Maybe his current relationship is spurring him to discover things in himself that were buried when he was a teen, when he loathed his body so much, felt invisible to most other people. Maybe Buck wanting him so much made it easier to want himself. 

He sets the little cup down, eyes the door across the large room. It's closed, but not locked. Good enough. Steve just rubs himself with the oil first, then enters himself careful and slow. It's easier this time, mentally and physically, since he knows what's coming (no pun intended). He does more than work his finger inside - he slowly eases it in and out, lightly dragging the curled tip over the sensitive spot both ways. That had scared him before, to actually thrust, afraid to do anything that would remind him of... He feels himself start to tense inside, pushes the thought away. 

_Deep breaths._

Steve closes his eyes, focuses on the sensation, thinks about how much Buck loves this being done to him. Remembering his fingers inside the Soldier, the big man's breathy sounds, how he asks (pleads) to be fucked, turns him on even more. Slowly, so carefully, he eases a second finger in. That feeling - being pleasantly stretched, filled in a way Buck's soft tongue couldn't do - is utterly different to anything, and not at all like being taken violently as he feared it would be. Now there's two calloused pads rubbing his prostate as he gently penetrates himself over and over and it's so, so good. He can't help the little sounds that come out of him and he's sweating, even with his robe completely open to the cool morning air.

The soft click of the latch a few minutes later makes his eyes fly open. He doesn't have the presence of mind to pull his hand away or cover himself, just stares into the semi-darkness in shock. Buck is there, door already shut behind him. His eyes glow softly in the dim, his mouth a bit open, expression going from a mixture of concern and fear to surprise and arousal. 

"Should I...leave?" the Soldier questions softly as Steve finally removes his fingers, curling the outside of his hand lightly against his thigh. 

The blonde shakes his head. For a long moment they just stare at each other.

"Would you...like assistance?" Buck asks, equal parts eager and wary.

_Do you...want some help with that?_ Steve hears Jack say. Fear had stopped him then, even though he'd wanted to. Later - after having a positive, long-term physical relationship and seeing how much it could strengthen an emotional bond with the right person - he regretted not going there with the big man, not trusting him to not take it farther, not giving Jack at least that before Steve's revenge took everything from him. 

After a few seconds, the mechanic nods. The brunette locks the door, approaches slowly, as if he'll spook him. The rain beats against the big window behind the tub, muffling his quiet foot steps, the growing dawn light hazy and gray through the heavy clouds. When Buck's a few feet from the mechanic he stops, eyes cautiously - reverently - running down his petite body and then back to meet his own. 

"Tell me what you want," the Soldier whispers. 

Steve takes his metal hand, pulls him closer. "Is oil okay on this?" 

Buck nods. "I have not found a non-corrosive substance that can damage it." 

"Will you...use this one, in me?" The blonde doesn't mean to be so quiet, as he has so many other times, but his voice isn't even a whisper. 

The bigger man's eyes widen a bit, his throat working, jaw muscles twitching. "Whatever you want," he rasps. 

"Just...one finger, and really slow. And I don't like it very hard and..." he drifts off. 

Maybe giving some big list of instructions is ridiculous, killing the mood, but he knows this is different than the other things they've done. If Buck does something he doesn't like or that makes him uncomfortable, it could cause him to panic, ruin the whole thing. The Soldier has always been so good at taking instruction. Maybe if it's too difficult to tell him what to do, he can show him.

"I have an idea," Steve says.

_Oh, you're welcome. My day's going great, thanks. Yours?_ he hears Jack quip, as he had when the blonde had greeted him with the same words years ago. It's comforting somehow. 

Chewing his lip he brings the bigger man even closer, undoes the belt on his robe, eases it from his shoulders and lets it drop to the ground. The brunette's eyes get big, and it occurs to the smaller man that he may misunderstand his intention, him now naked and Steve splayed out on the edge of the sink's marble counter, entrance glistening. But Buck doesn't move to touch the mechanic, just stands waiting to be given permission or advisement. Steve puts more oil in his hands, rubs some of it on the Soldier's silver digits before doing the same with his own.

"Why don't I do to you what I want done to me and you can copy it?" 

Steve is surprised at the confidence in his voice when he feels so nervous, but there is something about the soft, needy, anxious way that the bigger man is looking at him that makes him feel utterly in control. Buck nods, edges closer, spreads his legs a bit more, letting Steve reach between them as he slowly does the same to the blonde. The mechanic demonstrates exactly how he likes to be rubbed, to have his entrance teased, the big man eagerly following suit on Steve's body. When they're both breathing hard into each other's faces, the blonde ever so slowly eases his middle finger into Buck, who does the same in return, both of them groaning softly. He can feel every rib of the ultra smooth, warm metal as it pushes into him. 

"Fuck!" Steve exclaims quietly when it's fully inside him, going still - Buck freezes, eyes him with worry. "I totally understand why you use this one now," the blonde quickly follows up. "It feels so different, so good." 

The mechanic starts to move again, stroking ever so lightly over Buck's prostate at first, far more gently than the big man usually likes it. He curls the finger slow, pad pointed up, leaving long pauses between the fingertip's contact with the sensitive area. The Soldier copies it exactly, looks entranced as he watches Steve's face, see his cheeks flush, eyebrows pull in, lids close slightly, mouth open a bit wider again and again as he makes sweet little stuttering gasps. Steve starts to very slowly, gently thrust, curling the finger forward a bit more firmly on the way out and back on the way in, grazing his prostate in both directions. Buck does the same inside the blonde as he rumbles deep in his chest. After a few minutes of working up the courage, Steve puts a second one in. 

The Soldier's fingers are thicker than his, unyielding. Steve moves very, very slow at first, the memory of being forced to take too much too fast and the awful pain making him clench slightly. He stops, leans his head back to look at the Soldier, at the naked affection in his eyes. 

"Kiss me," he whispers and Buck does, soft at first and then like his life depends on it

He starts fucking Buck, slow and steady, with his hand - after a second the bigger man returns the gesture. It isn't long before Steve feels tingly everywhere, his cock getting so hard, his balls drawing up tight. He feels like his bones are rubber, his insides white hot radiation. The most decadent, needy sounds come out of him and he scrambles to spread his legs farther, let Buck into him deeper. When he opens his eyes the Soldier is watching him, unblinking, with rapt attention. It's obvious he very badly wants to make Steve cum like this. It's also obvious, after the blonde goes right up to the edge, dangles forward over the yawning chasm of his impending orgasm but can't drop in, that he still needs more.

He grips Buck's shaft, works him the way Steve likes, and the big man follows suit. It takes seconds before the blonde is shoving his face against the Soldier's chest to muffle the cries of his intense release. He's panting, twitching, his cock and hole suddenly too sensitive. The blonde removes his hands from Buck, giving him the cue to do the same. The bigger man quickly obliges. Steve leans back against the mirror breathing hard, head swimming. It takes him a long time to notice the Soldier is staring at him with awe, longer still to realize the big man is still hard. 

Steve slides back to the edge of the counter, thighs and cheeks and sack a slick mess of oil and cum beneath him. The blonde comes forward enough that he's just resting on the back of his cheeks and his tailbone, pulls out the bottom drawer of the vanity beneath him a bit with his toes and rests the balls of both feet on its edge. He grips Buck's hips and urges him forward. Steve takes the brunette's length in his hand and slides it between his wet thighs, under his balls, head rubbing light over the pucker of his hole. He tightens his legs, using his position on the drawer and hands on the ledge of the sink top as leverage to arc his body up. 

"Fuck me like this, but don't enter me," he says softly. 

The Soldier stares at him in wonder for a long minute, searching his face for any hint of uncertainty, then he smashes their mouths together and starts to rock his hips. Even so spent, it feels good for Steve, Buck's hard, smooth length sliding against all his most sensitive areas. For the first time he can actually picture letting the Soldier take him. The brunette groans into his mouth again and again, tongue moving perfectly against the blonde's. There's a second where Buck's head almost slips just a bit into his entrance and he almost, almost tells him to just do it, just penetrate him. The bigger man carefully adjusts his angle so it doesn't happen again, goes back to fluidly thrusting between Steve's thighs, along the underside of his balls, against his perineum, his crack. 

Suddenly with a bellow quieted against Steve's neck, Buck finishes hard all over him. The hot splash of it on his hole and sack is strangely good too, different than feeling it uncomfortably seep out hours after. The Soldier impulsively slides his arms around Steve's waist to lift him high, one moving around his upper back. The blonde's chin rests on his shoulder as they cling together. 

"Thank you," Buck whispers in his ear, "for having so much trust in me. I love you." 

"I love you too," Steve murmurs, "but I think a shower is in order."


	62. Pools and puddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang enjoy another day at the hotel.

There's a sports complex along the west side of the penthouse with all manner of equipment and a pool. Clint and Nat work out, like they do together a lot of days at home, egging each other on and flirt-bickering. The archer makes the mistake of offering to spar with her in the boxing ring, and she kicks his ass with ruthless efficiency. Flipping him over she straddles him, pinning his arms down with her knees as she lightly grips his throat. 

"Oooh baby, I love it when you get rough," the archer manages to choke out, pressing up into her hand even harder. 

"You want an actual challenge?" Hill asks from outside the ropes. The red head grins, nods.

"Chick fight!" Clint yells, bringing the others. 

They're fairly well matched, despite Maria having five inches on Nat. What Hill has on her opponent in strength and reach, the other woman makes up for with speed and flexibility, bending her body in seemingly impossible ways to dodge blows. 

After twenty minutes of the two of them going at it with no clear progress, Win yawns and announces, "Boring!" 

She challenges Steve and Buck to a game of ping pong against herself and Luis. 

"Winter doesn't get a partner! He destroys at this game already. Seriously," the green-eyed man laughs. "After I taught him how to play, he never lost against me even once." 

"Two on one and you get one paddle!" Win insists, pointing up at the Soldier. 

He's still easily besting them, hitting every ball, not letting them score, making several points. Steve has to laugh at how nonchalant he seems, like it takes no effort at all, while Win and Luis - yelling and swearing in Cantonese and Spanish respectively - are sweating and panting trying to match his speed and impossible angles. The blonde stands behind the bigger man's opponents, coyly slides a finger into his mouth while giving a seductive look. Buck misses the ball. The others scream in victory and jump into an intense hug. The Soldier scowls at the mechanic, who grins ear to ear. 

The brunette isn't distracted by Steve's gestures, even as they become increasingly obscene, until he bites his lower lip flirtily and slips his fingers into his waistband up to the second knuckle. The calloused tips are dangerously close to his crotch. Another shot flies past Buck.

"Oooooh getting slow in your old age!" Luis mocks him.

The Soldier growls, furrows his brows, locks his focus on the table. He's letting nothing past him, but the other two are also playing excellent defense and the score is now tied. Buck blocks out the blonde, now obviously cupping himself inside the sweats he'd pilfered from the walk in. Steve - always up for a challenge - turns, looks over his shoulder and eases his pants down enough to show half of his ass. Buck misses again, losing the game. He throws the paddle down hard enough the sound echoes through the big room.

"Cheating!" he yells, pointing a (thoroughly cleaned) metal finger between the two of them. 

They turn around to see Steve standing there, arms crossed, surveying the table.

"What?" the mechanic asks innocently. 

Buck stalks up to him, eyes glowing, lords over the smaller man. "I believe I am owed compensation for your interference." 

"I have _no idea_ what you're talking about," Steve says, feigning offense as he rolls his eyes dramatically. 

The big man stoops down low. "Apologize." He looks very intense, but there's an unusual hint of playfulness in his tone.

The blonde chuckles through his nose. "I can't say I'm sorry when I don't know what I did." 

"If you will not make reparations for your wrong doing, I will be forced to seek justice through other avenues." The Soldier stands up straight.

Steve pops up on his tip toes, gets his lips tantalizingly close to Buck's. "What're ya gonna do, biggin? Spank me?" 

The brunette's hands are out with lightning speed, fingers working under the smaller man's arms, making him squirm and laugh uncontrollably.

"Hahaha! Not fair! HahahaBuckhahaha!" The blonde walks backwards but the bigger man advances with him, continues his movements as the smaller man slaps at him. After a long few moments, Steve is red-faced and almost hyperventilating. "Hahahahastophahahahastop stop!!!"

The Soldier obliges him and the mechanic stands there trying to catch his breath. "You..." he huffs a few times, "bastard!" Steve finally gets out, grinning. 

"Have you been trained to swim?" Buck asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"Uhh yeah wh-" 

The mechanic is cut off when the Soldier shoves him lightly in the middle of his chest. He falls backwards into the deep end of the pool. Steve surfaces screaming. 

"IT'S SO FUCKING COLD!!! SHIT IT'S SO COLD!" 

Buck strips out of his sweats and jumps in, naked, diving smooth and perfect to the bottom, his body barely making a sound as it cuts the water. He surfaces in front of the blonde, smiles broadly.

"Now we are, as they say, even Steven." 

The blonde dog paddles up to him, wry smile on his face as he squints his eyes. "I think the punishment was too big for the crime." He splashes Buck. 

Buck leans close to his ear. "Perhaps I only sought an excuse to see you wet again. You are very enticing like this." When he pulls back, the smaller man is blushing. 

"Well, if he's got his dick out again, I might as well get out mine," Clint says from the side of the pool as he strips out of his t-shirt and workout pants. 

"It's actually not a bad temperature once you get used to it," Steve offers.

Clint, totally nude, screams "CANNONBALL!" and jumps into the pool - a deluge of water sprays the other two men.

"We've all seen your _cannonballs_," Steve quips after he surfaces, splashing the archer in the face.

Clint points at the Soldier. "You're **buck**naked," he comments, followed by a throaty laugh as the big brunette makes a confused face. 

The sports complex featured a small locker room filled with workout clothes, further evidence that the owner had expected guests as they were of all different shapes and sizes. A few minutes later Nat, Win and Luis come out in actual swim attire. 

"There's no universe where you don't all get some sort of horrible bacterial infection from swimming in that pool. You know that rain water is untreated?" Hill, in workout leggings and a sports bra, is toweling sweat from her forehead. 

"It is no less safe than swimming in any relatively clean body of open water, but I do advise against drinking it. A mouthful or two should be safe, but do not swallow large quantities," Buck responds. 

"That's what she said," the archer chimes in. Maria rolls her eyes and walks off. 

"Speaking of bodies of water, why aren't you guys set up next to one of those rivers that we passed?" Luis asks, treading water. "Why isn't anyone?" 

"The storms all along the coast created heavy rainfall which feeds the rivers and streams to the south," Buck explains. "Much of this rain lands on the ground and then drains into waterways. Thus the waterways contain toxic runoff from damaged sewer facilities, factories, powerplants and general debris and waste from damaged cities. The water is not safe, even when filtered and boiled. It is far too contaminated with chemicals. It would require a complex water treatment facility to make the water safe for consumption or crop usage. In some instances, the water is even radioactive." 

"Why do I ask you things?" the green-eyed man says in mild exasperation.

"Because I am very intelligent," Buck calmly responds. That makes Luis laugh loud and the Soldier smiles. 

"We should play chicken!" Clint demands.

"Absolutely not," Nat says flatly.

"Ba gawk! Ba gawk!" Win flaps her bent arms.

"Ooooh, she's callin' you out!" Luis chuckles. 

"I think you've gotta accept her challenge," Steve adds, "or your honor will forever be besmirched." 

The others head to the shallow end of the pool. The competition is brutal and the welder isn't above pulling the redhead's long hair or pinching her full breasts. Steve and Buck stay in the deep end, paddling around each other.

"Where are Phil and Greta?" the Soldier asks.

"She said they were going to _trip balls_ and watch movies on the holodeck in their bedroom," the mechanic responds. "She found a _lot_ of drugs in the master." 

"And...Sitwell?" 

"Who knows? Haven't seen him since breakfast." 

"He said that he...loves you." Buck looks down into the water.

"I don't think he meant it like it came out," Steve says, "I think he just has a crush on me. He'll get over it."

Buck's long arms swish silently, his strong legs bicycling slowly beneath the surface. The blonde watches him in silence as swirling reflections of light play across his face. His eyes have been periwinkle almost constantly since this morning, but they shift to a bit more icy hue.

"When you love someone, you will do anything for them, do anything to be with them," the Soldier says quietly. "I know this to be true from experience." 

The blonde blushes. "And you're...worried he'll win me over with his incredible wit and charm and sharpshooting skills?"

"I... question his intentions, what he may do. I do not question your feelings towards me." 

Steve gives him a warm smile, swims in close, puts his slender arms around the bigger man's neck. Buck effortlessly keeps both of them afloat in the water as the smaller man's legs wrap around his waist. They kiss for a long time.

Eventually they all meet up with a slowly-coming-down Coulson and Greta, as well as Jasper and Hill, to have lunch. They spend hours playing video and board games and just generally screwing off. The penthouse's rec room has everything that you could want to entertain yourself - a pool table, darts, a hatchet throwing area, even a single lane for bowling. Long after dinner, and a brutal game of Monopoly that almost ended with a fist fight, the three younger couples head back to the master suite while the others retire to their separate rooms. There were just enough for Coulson and Greta to use one and Sitwell and Hill to each have their own, leaving the rest to share. 

Steve, Buck and the others are on the floor on piles of blankets, having a late night snack and chatting. The electric fireplace - mimicking the real thing on one wall - is the only light in the room, bathing them in a soft red-orange glow. The Soldier sits with his back to the end of the bed, long legs spread out with the mechanic sitting to his left, turned a bit sideways and leaning into him. He cannot help but notice, even through the thick fabric of their robes, how warm the smaller man feels. His scent is _so_ tantalizing. The brunette swallows hard, is certain he can taste him in the air. 

Buck had fed gluttonously on their attackers but he had also injured himself severely falling from the building - using up reserves to heal his shattered bones, punctured skin and crushed organs - and then exerted a massive amount of effort climbing, repairing shutters and opening the huge door, plus closing it again. The need is not overpowering, but it is awake, speaking wordlessly. The want whispers even louder in the back of his mind, tells him to carry Steve off where they can be alone, where he can be free to put his teeth in him, bury his pulse in him. He cannot think of anything but his sweet taste and the helpless sounds he had made as the Soldier drank from him. 

"Winter, buddy? You okay?" Luis' voice pulls him from his thoughts. 

The smaller man approaches him across the layer of comforters, sits close. He also smells delicious and his scent is so familiar - so ripe with the promise of blood, strength, bonding, comfort - that it gets the want chattering even louder. His friend gently rests a hand on the bigger man's flesh arm; his skin is so warm, his pulse lightly thrumming in his fingertips, and it makes the need spike in Buck. He feels his teeth extend farther.

"You need to drink?" the green-eyed man asks softly. "You look hungry." 

Steve leans back so he can see the bigger man's face. His eyes are glowing the familiar pale blue that means so many things and he can faintly see the shadows on his lower lip of his biggest teeth pressing there. He looks at Luis and his big eyes are already fixed on the blonde.

"Is it okay if he bites me?" Luis asks quietly. "Just my wrist for a bit, so he doesn't get too clingy." 

Buck makes a tiny sound in his chest at that, which Steve feels more than hears. The bigger man's body is tense with anticipation, and the blonde can feel his incredibly slow pulse pick up the littlest bit inside his rib cage. 

"Sure," Steve says, trying to sound like it's no big deal. "You don't have to hold back on my account either, if you want to make it better for him," he offers after to the Soldier. 

"Would you prefer we leave the room?" Buck says as much to the others as Luis.

There's a chorus of _no_ and some headshakes, including from Luis and Steve. The smaller man draws near to the brunette's right side, his legs curled up under him, and offers his wrist to the bigger man as the others watch with rapt interest. The Soldier looks to Steve, who nods, then grips Luis' forearm - firm but careful - and buries his teeth hard and fast into the pulse point there. Luis tenses ever so slightly, though the blonde is surprised by how little given the awful sound it had made. It must hurt like hell. 

Buck groans softly, eyes glowing brighter as they go half closed - Steve can't deny that this time he likes seeing and hearing how much he enjoys it, much as he had watching him drink the duck blood months ago. The blonde can't help but turn his attention to Luis and blatantly stare, utterly fascinated by the effect it's having on him. It's only brief moments before the young man's face softens, his big green eyes going partially shut, his lips parting. He only sighs at first, his shoulders sloping back and down, his entire body seeming to relax. Then he makes this little whimper, lids fluttering down. It isn't long before he leans forward, pushes his face into the thick fabric of Buck's robe, muffling his increasingly loud, drugged moans. 

After what seems like a long time, but is probably only minutes, the Soldier releases him. The wound is gone. Luis slumps down against his side, arm going over Buck's belly. After a bit he notices Steve watching him.

"Sorry, do you want me to move?" he asks quietly, obviously dazed. The blonde gives him a little smile and shakes his head. 

One by one the others offer, first Win - who is quickly slumped across Luis - then Nat, who returns to sprawl on the floor near their feet, then Clint, who just drapes himself over Buck's legs after. With them all settled in a warm cuddle puddle it feels totally acceptable for Steve to offer his wrist, the bigger man to take it, to push his pulse into him hard, clutch him close as the little mechanic wails helplessly with enjoyment, Buck groaning and whimpering again and again at how incredible it is. 

When someone peeks in, they're all asleep.


	63. Afterglow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets real weird with it.

They're all loopy when they wake up after the feeding, giggly and touchy, finding it hard to stay too far apart. Nat and Win sit in front of the fire with their respective significant others almost across from them, legs all tangled together, all of them talking about nonsense. Steve has full on climbed into Buck's lap, something he's only done a few times - in this moment he can't remember why that is. He just knows it feels nice, his side against the bigger man's chest and belly, legs curled up with his feet next to the brunette's outer thigh. The big man is still in the same spot, shoulders against the mattress. It's obvious he's pleasantly drugged after biting so many of them, his eyelids partially closed. 

"You're so cute," Steve hears Clint say. "Way cuter than me." 

The blonde looks over and realizes he's talking to Luis, who is guffawing and blushing a bit. "I mean, you're a good lookin' dude. You're definitely way more built than me." 

"Yeah but you're like," the archer leans closer, eyes his face thoughtfully, "you're so _pretty._" 

The green eyed man laughs. "Wow, uhhh... Thanks, I guess." 

"What?!" Clint looks almost drunk. They all do. Buck had fed on them so much deeper than before, and the after effect was so much stronger. "Is _pretty_ like, offensive, because you're a dude? It's just...I don't know. It's the best word for you. You're really fit and everything but you've got that hair and those eyes and you look all...smooth and soft. I think..." He pauses, looks up like he's had an epiphany, then looks back at the smaller man. "I think it finally happened. I think I'm a little gay for you. Can I...kiss you?" 

Luis rolls his eyes and barks out a laugh. He shoves Clint's face. "She put you up to this?" He points at Nat.

"No! Like...I saw you were a dish right away, but that's not new. I can always admit another guy is hot and that doesn't usually mean anything. But, like, I saw you _wet_ twice and that was...distracting. Then...a bit ago, you were moaning... And that was pretty...I guess arousing is the word." 

"The noises aren't a sex thing. He bit you too. You know." Luis doesn't sound offended, more amused at rationalizing with someone who's clearly, to him at least, being irrational. "Help me out here, ladies." 

"I mean maybe the feeding itself is not a sex thing, with us anyway, but the afterglow isn't _not_ a sex thing," Nat offers. "I think it can kind of... lead wherever. Like, I just felt high and relaxed in the best possible way and not at all horny, until my husband confessed he wants to bone you, and now I need a mop and a bucket." 

"I did not say I want to bone him!" Clint corrects.

"Thank you! He's just talking out his ass. It's nothing," Luis plays it off.

"I'd like him to bone me. But, like, we could start with a kiss today though," the archer follows up. "If that's okay with all interested parties." 

He gestures to the women. They both give a double thumbs up.

"I already told you, I'm not making out with you to entertain your wife. So you can stop with the joke." 

"Not for her. For me." 

Luis looks at Clint, laughs, goes serious, laughs again, goes serious. "Wait, are you for real? But everything you said before..." 

The archer nods. "I totally meant. I've always been open to liking dudes, I just...was never actually attracted to one until now. You're just...really kissable. So, can we?"

"Ahhhhhhhhh...I don't know, dude," the green eyed man blushes harder. "It's just the feedbuzz. You're not really into me."

"It's cool if you don't want to," the bigger man insists. "I won't be offended. But I felt this way _before_ he bit me. Now I just...have the balls to say it." 

"It's easy. Watch," Win offers. She leans over and kisses Nat on the lips. The redhead responds with a pleasant hum and presses back. 

The guys mouths both hang open and so does Steve's. Win gestures between Luis and Clint. The archer leans in close, gives the green eyed man _the look_ he'd taught Buck and, when the smaller man tilts his face up towards him, the bigger man kisses him slow and sweet.

"See? Not so scary," he breathes, bringing a hand up to run through Luis' glossy ringlets.

When the green eyed man shakes his head lightly in agreement, Clint moves his fingers to cup the side of his face. He eases in slow, looking for any sign he should stop. When there's none he kisses him gently again, slowly intensifies it. Soon Luis' mouth is moving with equal vigor against his. The smaller man pulls back a bit, panting.

"You're a really good kisser," he whispers. 

"You too," Clint agrees. 

They look to the women.

"Do not stop on our account," Win insists.

"I mean, I'm enjoying the show, but you can go in the other room for all I care if you don't want an audience," Nat adds.

"I'm comfy," Luis grins, stretches his arms up and back, making his robe come open more at the top, showing off his hairless pecs and the top of his flat belly. 

He gets a surprised expression on his face as he watches Clint swallow hard looking at his body - realization dawns there this isn't a joke or just an amusement. The archer leans back in to claim his mouth and their kissing turns passionate quickly. After a bit their tongues are occasionally visible working against each other in the space where their mouths meet. It's clear they've forgotten everyone else as Luis whimpers into it, clutches at the archer. Clint groans in response. The bigger man breaks their kiss to mouth along his jaw, down his neck. The smaller man is breathing hard and flushed, hands gripping at Clint's shoulders as the archer's big arms slide inside his robe and around him. 

One of the bigger man's large hands comes up out the collar opening, lightly grips the back of Luis' neck just below the base of his skull. His other hand returns the way it came, grabs the top of the smaller man's robe and pulls it down. He's bare to the waist other than the sleeves pooled at his elbows, his fit body and half-sleeve tattoos accented beautifully in the fire light. Clint tightens his grip on the smaller man's neck, easing his head a bit farther back. He sucks hard along his smooth throat, his clavicle, moves to bite softly where his shoulder meets his neck. 

Steve suddenly feels Buck's mouth and tongue on his own sensitive skin, lips sucking at his earlobe. It shouldn't surprise him the Soldier, who loves to watch and be watched, is enjoying this. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a bit too. Luis _is_ really hot and while the blonde is obviously not attracted to Clint he _is_ attractive. The archer runs his free hand over the smaller man's exposed chest, lightly rubs his thumb over the pert nipple. The mechanic feels the brunette's hand slip into his robe, pinch his with just the right amount of pressure. He closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation, their lingering feed-bond making it even more intense, just like when they'd fooled around after he blew up the water pump. 

Luis' chest is rising and falling fast, little sounds coming out of him repeatedly. 

"Can I... Can I stroke you off?" Clint asks, not even trying to be quiet. "I wanna make you moan."

The green eyes get bigger and he freezes. Win whispers something to Nat who nods, then she slides forward. The welder kisses Luis first, then kisses Clint to his surprise. She eases them back together - their mouths move hungrily against each other as she undoes the smaller man's belt, pushes his robe open. Win licks her hand generously and starts to jerk him slow in plain view. He whimpers into Clint's mouth. She moves to kiss his neck, eventually pulling her hand away, gripping the archer's wrist and bringing his near Luis' length. 

"Is it okay?" Clint asks him, hesitating. 

Luis swallows hard, nods. The archer takes him in hand and starts to stroke him slow and careful, literally feeling out the process. The smaller man moans soft and breathy against Clint's lips as Win sucks at his earlobe, pulls his hand to her breast. Buck's fingers trail up Steve's leg to his inner thigh, pause. The blonde pushes his hand farther up, to his cock. He groans softly; a few moments later the Soldier's hand withdraws, returns slick, pulling a moan from the mechanic when he starts to work him again. 

Nat leaves the blankets, comes back wearing nothing but a harness that goes around her hips, ass and thighs with a five inch strap on attached. She's holding a box of condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. The redhead settles behind Clint, eases up the back of his robe, starts to touch his entrance with two slick fingers. It isn't long before she has them in him. He moans against Luis' neck, his own hand working a little faster on the smaller man as he kisses Win. Nat puts a condom on the fake cock, lubes it up, eases it into her husband. His whole body goes tight, shudders lightly, as he bellows low. 

He pants against Luis' shoulder, stroking him faster, twisting his grip a little, groaning as Nat rocks the toy into him. The smaller man is moaning louder now, cock leaking. Steve can relate - Buck is working him just the way he likes under his robe. Win grips Luis' sack, licks her lips as she watches his face contort in pleasure. Suddenly she pushes Clint's hand away and climbs on, eases the smaller man's cock inside her and rides him. The blonde can relate to that too and the flashback of her doing it to him hits him like a brick to the face in his current state. He moans loud. 

The archer is leaned up on one arm as his wife fucks him harder from behind. The mechanic has a view of her perfect, shapely porcelain ass. Her back is ripped, muscle moving under flesh as she thrusts.The women look at each other and something wordless is exchanged. Nat whispers in Clint's ear and he groans loud. Win lifts off Luis as the redhead pulls out of the archer. The men look at each other, panting, as the women move a bit away, Nat removing the condom.

"Will you...I mean if you want to... It's okay if you don't. I'd like to, with you," Clint stammers to Luis. Finally he gets to the point. "Will you fuck me?" 

The big green eyes go wide, teacup saucer wide. He looks over to the women, who are already cuddling, playfully groping each other. Win shrugs, hands him a condom and the lube. There's only a brief moment of hesitation as the archer takes his robe off and then Luis is letting Clint help him roll it on, slick it up. The bigger man lays on his back on the blankets, spreads his legs, urging the smaller man on top of him. Luis eases into him cautiously and they both groan. The small man goes slow at first, watching Clint's face, finding a good rhythm and angle. When he has it, he starts to fill him faster and harder, making the bigger man's thick frame slide up and down on the comforter as the archer brokenly moans.

Buck makes almost the same sound next to Steve's ear, stills his hand, slides it down where his fingers are grazing the blonde's ass cheek an inch from his hole. 

"May I?" he whispers. 

The mechanic nods and then feels the light rub of fingertips in slow circles around his entrance, punctuated by firm, quick strokes over the center. Buck pulls his hand away, returns it even wetter, eases a finger carefully into Steve. The smaller man gasps and after a moment starts to rock his hips forward, fucking himself with it. Win and Nat just watch the boys for a bit, before Win straddles Nat. Win says something in Cantonese and they both laugh, then she guides the toy into herself and starts moving up and down. The redhead giggles, rubs her tits. The archer is groaning high and loud now. Luis fucks him harder and Clint breaks out in a light sweat everywhere. The big muscles in his shoulders and thighs cord up as he pulls his legs up and back, taking the smaller man deeper, panting loud in time with the thrusts. 

Buck eases a second finger into Steve, works his prostate gently for a bit before starting to push in and out of him. Soon, the Soldier is rock hard against his ass, finger fucking him perfectly. Steve leans back and looks up at Buck. The mechanic expects to see the big man watching the show, but he's staring down at him. His expression makes the smaller man shudder and he's hit with a hot bolt of lust, of need. 

"Can we go somewhere else? I want you to...do that to me," Steve whispers so quiet only the brunette can hear him. 

Maybe it's too soon, but he knows this is the last chance they may have for a long time and he's brave right now, relaxed, his usual anxiety shaved away. They have no idea what's waiting for them on the road - it could be their last chance ever. Buck's eyes go wide. His hand stills and then pulls away. He scoops up Steve with one arm and a pile of blankets with the other, carries him into the common room and up the winding stairs to the glass dome on the roof, then closes the door behind them.


	64. High above the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys try to take their relationship farther.

It's pitch black in the big glass dome until lightning flashes, filling the space briefly with white light, revealing the battered remnants of the once beautiful small city stretched out below. The Soldier sets Steve gently on his feet, then pads over almost soundlessly to turn on the round, electric fireplace in the middle of the room. The orangey glow illuminates about ten feet out in all directions, leaving most of the room in darkness. While Buck can see the blonde just fine through the shadows - and busies himself taking cushions off the furniture scattered in clusters around the outside of the room - he appears as two floating orbs to the blonde, who can only see the Soldier's glowing eyes when he ventures into the blackness. The brunette makes a wide, cozy nest for them on the floor, adding the blankets. He pulls a small bottle of _something_ out of his robe pocket and sets it next to the makeshift bed. 

The blonde walks over, suddenly nervous despite the afterglow. He reminds himself that Buck won't do anything he doesn't approve of, that he'll stop whenever he wants, that he's utterly and totally safe here. Despite that, there's a long moment he just clings to the bigger man, hands curling tight on his waist over his robe, staring at the scars on his chest where they peek out its top. The brunette puts a finger under his chin and tilts it up, looks searchingly into his eyes. When Steve smiles, fear visibly melting, he leans down to kiss him gently. The warmth that floods them both is incredible, their feed-bond amping up the sensation when they touch again skin to skin, surprisingly even stronger now than before. Slowly, as their mouths press more furtively, they drop down on the blankets. 

"Show me what you want," Buck humbly requests, moving back farther on the cushions, sitting down fully, legs stretching out on either side of Steve's. 

The blonde is up on his knees to account for their height difference. He kisses the Soldier slow and it's bliss, his body tingling everywhere Buck's fingers edge under the robe. Perhaps they had been too rushed downstairs or not in the right headspace to let things unspool properly, because everything feels more intense now that they're alone together. He spreads his thighs apart, pulls the Soldier's metal hand under his robe. Buck rubs his entrance for a long time despite him already being wet from his earlier ministrations, their mouths working together. Even the sensation of their tongues touching makes them moan in their heightened state. When Buck presses in a finger it enters Steve easily and the small man hums his approval, a wave of feeling spreading through his insides. The Soldier works him slow and careful.

"Put in another one, please," the blonde requests softly after a few moments, pulling back from their kiss.

He suddenly feels almost empty without it, remembering the bigger man filling him so well when they were downstairs. The ghost of his earlier hesitation evaporates entirely and he's lost in the sensation of Buck's mouth as it moves to his neck, the firm pressure and texture of the smooth ribbed metal as another finger slides inside him, stretches him. The slim thighs part further, inviting, offering, demanding. 

"Another," he gasps out after a bit.

The Soldier is so cautious, so gentle and slow, as he heeds his wishes. It is still too much, too soon - there's a sudden moment of discomfort. Buck, eye to eye with him again, sees it on his face immediately, pulls out of him. 

"No, no don't stop," the mechanic almost whines.

"I was hurting you," the big man insists.

"You weren't. It was just...uncomfortable." He smiles, grips Buck's wrist, brings his hand back. "I can take it."

"Unacceptable. I only want you to feel good," the Soldier whispers, carefully easing one finger in, curling it, finding his prostate. As Steve gasps, he leans close to his ear. "I know you like a little pain, and I am happy to oblige you in any other way," he pinches Steve's nipple fairly hard and that sends a brushfire of pleasure through the smaller man, "but not this way. I will not knowingly hurt you like this, ever, even if you ask. We will go very slow. As you said before, there is no rush." 

Buck presses his face to the blonde's neck, and with his free arm eases him slowly onto his back, then slips a second finger into him again. He bends low, kissing Steve's thighs where his robe is pushed up.

"May I use my mouth on you?" 

"Y-yes," the blonde responds, making room between his legs for the bigger man, sliding the fabric higher.

Buck works him for a long time with his hand and mouth, opening his fingers apart as Steve had done for him the first time but sliding his tongue in between them to lap at the sensitive spot there. The mechanic comes apart, whimpering and moaning, grabbing the Soldier's hair. When the fingers are coming in and out of the blonde incredibly easily the bigger man very gingerly slides a third in, leaning up to watch the smaller man's face intently as he does. There's no hint of pain this time and after a bit he starts to thrust deeper. 

"Please, I'm ready," Steve insists. 

Buck smiles. "Not yet," he whispers, a bit mischievously, carefully opening the fingers inside the blonde a bit apart again and again. 

Soon Steve is panting, writhing, rocking his hips.

"Now, I think?" the Soldier asks, grinning. 

Steve nods, spreads his legs further. Buck maneuvers himself on his knees, removes his robe, slicks himself with the contents of the bottle. With a hand to one side of Steve's head to support his much greater weight, his other hand guides himself to the smaller man's entrance. Suddenly it's too much for the mechanic - he feels trapped, boxed in, with the large body looming over him, pressing against him _there_. 

"Stop! Stop!" He flails up against the bigger man, trying to close his legs. Buck is off him so quick it's a blur. Steve breathes hard, feeling damp with cold sweat. He sits up as he draws his knees to his chest protectively. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't think I can do it like that. Or any way that you're on top of me. Or from behind. I'm just.... I'm sorry." 

"We do not have to do this at all if you are not ready," the Soldier assures him, cautiously touching his arm. 

"I'm ready! I am, I just...I don't...I don't know how we can do it where I won't...freak out." 

Buck considers and the smaller man sees the precise moment the idea dawns on him. He eases Steve to turn, feet pointing to the top right of the cushions and back to the bottom left. The Soldier lays in the opposite direction - head at top left and feet at bottom right - on his right side, leaned up on his elbow and forearm. He lifts Steve's legs one at a time, positions the back of his left calf on Buck's waist and his right mid way down the big man's outer thigh, then - with a big hand on his narrow chest - gently eases the blonde to lean back on his elbows. Their bodies are perpendicular, Steve effectively spread open a foot from the Soldier's erection. He carefully slides a finger into the blonde, then two, then after a bit three, ensuring he is still relaxed enough. 

"Better?" he asks, alternating stroking the sensitive spot inside him and stretching his fingers apart. 

Steve sighs beautifully, nodding, lays back fully, tilts his hips up a bit using his legs on Buck as leverage. He basks in it for a while, letting all the tension drain out of him, before offering, "I'm ready."

Buck lubes himself up again with whatever is in the little bottle, slides his hips forward, gripping himself and guiding his length to slowly enter Steve. When just the head is inside, the Soldier reaches over, turns the smaller man's face using two fingers on his chin.

"Look at me," the bigger man whispers, getting the blonde to open his eyes, easing slowly in when he doesn't see any sign of discomfort. 

Buck reaches to run his silver fingers lightly down the exposed sliver of the blonde's chest and abdomen, then back before beginning to rock his hips leisurely. Perhaps the moment should feel like something monumental to the mechanic, like he should have a speech prepared, a list of thank yous to read. Maybe he should cry tears of joy for puttying over another crack in the plaster of his emotions. Perhaps he should confess his undying devotion to his partner, tell him how amazing he is, how there's probably no one else on Earth he would have ever allowed this with. Maybe this could be the beginning of a whole new chapter in his life, more in possession of his own body, his own mind.

He's enjoying himself far too much to be bothered with any of that right now. Every slow drag of the Soldier inside him is incredible and his every nerve lights up like an ancient switchboard he'd seen on a movie. His body is slack, delightfully too warm - he pushes his robe to splay fully open, all other thoughts boiling away but one thing. 

"You feel good, Buck. So good." 

Buck lowers his right side fully down, head resting on his bicep so they are near the same eye level. The blonde's deep pink lips are even more vivid in the firelight, slightly parted, wide pupils glowing softly. The Soldier's right hand is free to touch Steve's face and card through his hair as the silver fingers run over his fully exposed flat belly, narrow hips and slim thighs. He wants the little mechanic to stay relaxed, to feel nothing but peace, pleasure. The brunette tries his best to ignore his own. His stamina is not usually a concern when they are sexual and he is surprised at how quickly his impending release builds. The blonde feels amazing - tight and hot and slick - and seeing him spread out like this, the obvious ecstasy on his face, his little sounds, only pushes Buck farther along. 

The blonde uses the position of his legs to move his body in time with Buck's, urging him in deeper. The big man groans, his composure crumbling like his facial expression. He grips Steve's hip with his metal hand, lifts him slightly so his lower back is off the bedding, letting them fit together tighter, move faster. He takes cues from the blonde's movements to set the pace. They watch each other's faces as they both fall apart. The mechanic feels Buck's hips stutter, knows he's close to spilling. 

"Don't finish inside me," he whispers pleasantly enough, fingertips gliding over Buck's cheekbone as both their hips move with more force. "Do it where I do." 

Steve reaches down, puts fingers against his hole around either side of Buck's thick, wet cock, feels himself stretched around it as it slides in and out of him. He gathers some of the slick there, moves to stroke himself with purpose.

"I'm close, Buck, I'm so close," he whimpers. 

The Soldier's periwinkle eyes glow bright, his face awestruck, overpowered. He nods quick, slides his hand from the smaller man's hip to his thigh, closer to where they are joined. Steve stares deep into his eyes, unblinking, as he tips over the edge.

"Oh...ooh...ohhhhhhhh!" the blonde wails loud, shoulders coming off the blankets and legs pulling a bit forward as he finishes hard onto his stomach, a few runners hitting his chest and even throat. 

Buck pounds him through it for a few glorious moments, then his upper body and knees curl forward, hips rolling back as he pulls out. He quickly rocks up and forward to direct his pulsing cock and shoots onto the mechanic's abs. They both collapse, still tangled together, breathing hard. It's difficult for either of them to tell where their body ends and the other's begins. Later, they're asleep chest to chest, burrowed together in the heavy blankets, knees between each other's legs and arms around each other's waists, lips so close they are breathing each other's air, like one organism.


	65. We only come out at night, the days are much too bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has an interesting morning.

Greta, who for the moment has had her fill of Phil (and psychedelics), decides to make a big breakfast for everyone when she wakes up. There's powdered milk and egg substitute and a variety of preserved vegetables - peppers, olives, onions, mushrooms, artichoke hearts - and cheeses of course, as well as canned fruit. When she gets everything set up and ready, omelettes just needing to go into the frying pans after people pick their fillings, she heads to wake the others. Jasper and Hill both respond from their respective rooms when she knocks, and Coulson - sleep rumpled but no worse for wear - gives her a little wave from their bed. She's impressed he's even awake. 

She'd popped in the master after she'd worn out Phil (he finally fell asleep after the third round) to see if they were up for cards. The kids were all in a cozy pile on or around Buck, out cold. It didn't take a genius to figure out what they had been doing after she'd seen Steve all loopy in the messhall. The older woman had gotten a small taste of what the Soldier could do with his pulse and could only imagine how much stronger he was able to make it. She smiles watching them so peaceful. Lord knows they deserved it, especially the stubborn little pipsqueak. That boy had it so tough before he came to the junktown and seemed to keep needing to make it tough for himself in a variety of ways. She knows first hand abuse will do that to you, make you so used to the bad that you don't know how to recognize or appreciate the good (or you chase it away when you do). 

That scene had not prepared her for what she'd witness the next morning. The redhead is on her back, tits out. Greta's haven't looked like that since her early twenties and her waistline was never close to that size - good for the ginger, keeping up her figure in her mid thirties, but the older woman just can't be bothered with that shit and never could. Win has her head on Nat's stomach, snoring with her mouth open. She's a tiny little thing and the survivalist muses she was probably bigger than her at twelve or so, the older woman being above average height with a sturdy frame. Greta has absolute respect for the welder though, has seen her take on people twice her size in the same sort of blind, animal frenzy the mechanic gets in. The little cute one with the pretty eyes is asleep against the dumb one with the good arms, leg tossed over him. She can't help but notice they're pressed tight together. All four are naked as far as she can tell, blankets haphazardly thrown over their midsections, legs sticking out at crazy angles, robes abandoned nearby.

She shakes her head, grinning. Crazy kids. If she were younger (or they were older) she would have been first in line for that party, but now she can't help but look on them in a maternal way. Lord knows she'd fucked things up with her own kids for so long, avoided phone calls, pushed her beliefs down their throats, and now they were gone along with the bastard she'd bore them for. That last bit was some small comfort at least. She clears her throat loud, waking the girls. Win stretches and yawns, grins up at her. The redhead gets up stiffly and heads to the bathroom with a little wave - she's wearing a harness over her bear ass and she can just see the strap on bobbing as she closes the door. It makes Greta chuckle as she kicks Clint. The muscly buffoon jerks, waking the kid. Luis turns sheepish instantly and scrambles away.

"Go find your brother! Breakfast in ten," Greta barks at the archer; he was never her favorite person, but he had a sort of blind devotion for Steve and the others and that was enough.

Clint isn't surprised to find the mechanic and the Soldier laid out in a big, comfy nest in the dome. Buck growls threateningly when he opens the door, leaning up over Steve protectively.

"It's just me, Bucky. Greta's makin' breakfast, wanted me to get you two." 

The bigger man relaxes back down against Steve's side, snuggles in, waves Clint away.

"Why don't you go save us a shower before the rush starts," the petite man tells the brunette. 

Buck pushes his face tight into the side of the blonde's neck. "Bath," he pouts.

"No, we need to be quick. Bath when we come back here." 

The Soldier groans and the smaller man chuckles, turns to lightly headbutt him. They kiss slow and soft before Buck gets up. He swipes his robe up and puts it on as he strides past Clint, who is only in a pair of haphazardly thrown on sweats, hair messier than usual. Buck stops abruptly, sniffs him, makes a curious face. 

"Why do you smell so much like Luis?" 

"A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells," the archer responds, splaying his hand on his chest like a Southern belle in an old film. 

"Oh... I recall. You had sexual intercourse." 

"Yep," he enunciates hard, making a little pop on the P. 

"Hmpf," Buck grunts, tone indecipherable, and keeps walking.

"So, this is pretty _romantic_," Clint says in his best wedding planner voice, gesturing to the makeshift bed and the view. It's much lighter outside than the previous day, but still raining. Steve is sitting up and easing his robe on with as much of himself covered by the blankets as possible. 

"Yeah." The blonde stands, a mysterious smile creeping over his face. "So, I took your advice." 

"Ooooooh! Did you two get to butt second base last night?" 

"That was yesterday morning. Last night we..." Steve bites his lip. "Had a homerun." 

"Me too bro! I'm so proud of us, letting people put things in our asses!" The archer holds up a hand for a high five. The mechanic rolls his eyes but slaps it.

"That's gonna be a thing," the blonde insists. "Luis," he adds to clarify.

"Why would it be a thing?" The archer pulls his eyebrows together, turns up one side of his mouth. 

"Oh, Clint, you made such a terrible straight man." Steve pats him on the shoulder. 

A half hour later they're all gathered around the breakfast table shooting the shit and starting to discuss moving on as the storm is breaking. Jasper and Hill are both eager to go, not wanting to lose any daylight; Phil and Greta grudgingly agree. The others are lamenting their luxury vacation coming to an end, stuffing their faces, joking around. The older woman notices Luis is silent, leaning on his fist, pushing his food around with a fork. He's barely eaten.

"Omelette not good, Luis?" Greta asks him.

"Oh no, it's fine." He gives her a weak smile. "I'm just not very hungry."

"You gotta eat, kiddo. A blood orgy'll really take it out of you." She grins. 

Jasper does a spit-take onto Coulson with his coffee and most of the gang laugh. Luis' chair legs scrape on the floor as he pushes away from the table fast and stalks off, everyone quickly going silent.

"Ahh, fuck," Win grunts, looking after him. She whips around to Clint. "You go. Talk." 

The archer looks to Nat who just raises an eyebrow and cocks her head in the direction the younger man went. As he gets up he hears the welder chastising Greta. "Nosey! Nosey!" 

It doesn't take much searching to find the green-eyed man, even in the huge penthouse. The thump of the basketball on the hardwood court echoes as Clint approaches the side of the common room with the sports complex door. Luis pretends like the archer isn't even there as he enters, ignoring him completely as he walks over and settles on a bench fifteen away. 

"Hey." 

Luis doesn't respond. 

"Greta's just being Greta. She doesn't mean anything." 

The smaller man arcs up, makes a perfect shot, goes to fetch his ball, all in silence.

Clint sighs loud. "Come on, dude, talk to me." 

Luis makes a jump shot. It rolls around the hoop and then goes in. He moves to retrieve it despite there being a rolling rack almost full half way between him and the archer. 

"I really want to know what you're thinking. I'm even resisting making rim jokes," Clint says, grinning. When he still doesn't get a response he adds, "You fucked me for a half hour last night - kudos on the stamina by the way - so you can at least speak to me the morning after." 

The smile doesn't leave his face as the smaller man turns to glare at him. Luis whips the ball hard with both hands, narrowly missing the archer's head as he dodges.

"Good aim, good aim. Care to throw some words my way next?" 

Luis speed walks over to him, points a finger at his face from five feet away. "How are you so fucking calm, Clint?! What the hell?! I mean, was everything you said before bullshit? Was this your plan all along?! Is this, like, a thing you do?" 

"Anyone who knows me realizes I'm utterly incapable of making a plan and actually sticking to it." Clint shrugs. "It just happened and I'm not upset about it." 

"It didn't _just happen_. You...seduced me!" 

"Ha!" Clint barks out. "That's _super unlikely_. I have nice biceps and gravity defying hair but that's pretty much the extent of my appeal. I only ever got a lot of action because I was famous and rich. I wanted to do stuff with you, I asked, you said yes. Well, with actions more than words, but....there was no _trickery_ involved." 

"What Buck did to us must have made it happen. I mean...everyone was acting crazy." 

"Steve and Buck fooling around, normal. Nat, pansexual and really into girls with small boobs _for some reason_...and pegging me of course, so normal. Can't speak for Win's preferences but she seemed totally fine this morning so...I don't think anyone did anything they wouldn't want to do alone and sober with their person. We were just less inhibited." 

"Bullshit! I would have never done that with you and you are not and never will be my _person_." 

"Hasn't Buck bit you, like, dozens of times? Have you ever done anything like that after? Even wanted to do anything like that?" 

Luis rubs his hands over his face. "No. So what does that mean? Straight adult men don't magically discover they like doing shit with guys out of the blue. It's one thing to be a closet case and, like, be aware you want to but you don't _never want to_ and then suddenly want to!" 

Clint shrugs, expression unfazed by the younger man's rambling. "Maybe they do. I did. It's whatever."

"Yeah, this is great for you! Stories to swap with blondey and you can have random hookups to entertain red. Perfect." 

"Yeeeeeah, I don't need to talk about guys, or like them, to impress Steve, and I don't do randoms anymore. Nat and I have been totally monogamous up to this point and she's never asked me to do anything with anyone outside of the whopping two guys I've kissed before you. It would be pretty cool if you didn't act like my best friend and my wife are bad people." 

"Well you know fucking Steve is never gonna let me near Winter again now. And I told Buck that I wasn't into guys, so now he's gonna think that I'm a liar and just bullshitted him, like he's not good enough for me or something. So he's gonna be pissed at me too. And Win probably thinks I'm gay..." 

"Win was all over you this morning, until she got sick of your pouting. She's not mad. Fuck, she was encouraging us the most. And Stevie knows liking some guys doesn't mean liking every guy. And Buck-" 

"I don't like guys!" Luis interupts. 

"Ohhhhhh so this is an internalized queerphobia thing?" Clint nods knowingly.

"No! I'm not like that." The younger man's brow furrows.

"Queer or queerphobic?" 

"Either!" 

"Okay," Clint says agreeably. "You don't like guys and you can just pretend like last night never happened." He shrugs.

"I don't! I just..." Luis' face falls. "I just........._like you_." His voice drops low as his expression scrunches. He covers his face with his hands. "Shit I...I really liked it, Clint. All of it. What the fuck does that mean? What does that make me?" He starts to cry, sobs audibly through his fingers, shoulders moving up and down. 

The bigger man frowns sympathetically. "It doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't have to make you or not make you anything," Clint says gently, getting up and going over to him. "Look, I'm in the same boat. I'm into you, but I've never been into another dude. And I mean, I love Stevie to death and I kissed him and still not a hint of feeling anything like that, even after years of being around each other. So I get why its confusing, especially with you testing the waters with Buck, who you care about so much, and not being into him like that. So yeah, I thought I was straight. But that label never really mattered all that much to me. I don't, like, need it to tell me who I am. You don't either." 

Luis pulls his hands away, his eyes and cheeks red. He looks furious. "That's because you're white and grew up in the suburbs. Fuck, your school probably had an army of therapists ready to pounce on anyone who wasn't perfectly tolerant of everyone else and your parents probably told you what a special snowflake you were on a daily basis."

"Actually we lived in a blue collar neighborhood and my dad was a factory worker. My mom was an English teacher before the Downsizing, if you can believe that, since I'm dumb as a stone." He grins, self-deprecation always a ready weapon in his arsenal. "My talent with a bow made me rich. But I grew up two steps away from white trash."

"You didn't come from where I come from! Or have my family!" Luis yells. "This is something... It's okay for other people to be that way, but not me. They'd roll over in their graves. And fuck, every guy on the block that ever called me a maricón, this makes them sort of right."

"No, it makes them assholes."

"You can't understand what it's like to be thought of as something you're so sure you're not your whole life and then find out that you kind of are. Even a little bit. No one probably ever looked at you and thought this about you, accused you of this!"

"Trust me, I had relatives and neighbors that were _plenty homophobic_. I had guys fuck with me because I was small when I was younger and, shit, I'm not exactly the biggest guy now. I've got all of two inches on you. People used to call me shit because I had queer friends too. Half of Claptrap probably thinks I fuck Steve. But it's the end of the fucking world, Luis. _It's_ all gone. I don't think we need to worry about shit like that anymore." Clint reaches out cautiously, puts his hands on the smaller man's upper arms lightly. "Look, at the least I still wanna be friends, but if you don't want that, I'll respect it. And if you want...more than that, whatever way, the four of us will figure it out." 

Luis looks up slowly, anger spent, face wet. The archer gently wipes the tears away with his thumbs. When they come back to the table, the younger man doesn't say much, but he eats all of his breakfast. When they leave the hotel a few hours later, headed towards an uncertain fate, he begrudgingly admits to himself he's sad to see it shrink into the rearview.


	66. Pump up the jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang move forward with their journey.

They have to drive carefully through the tough terrain of the destroyed city, the newest hurricane spreading the already shattered buildings in an even more haphazard array over the roads. Steve is the best driver, so he handles the truck, Buck slipping out repeatedly to remove things from their path that they can't drive around or over. Once they head further in land, find some clear black top, they make good time heading to their destination - a relatively isolated factory in a rural town. 

Eventually, Win is driving and Luis riding shotgun. The young man has had very little to say all morning, and after he sighs to himself for the twentieth time she reaches over and slaps him upside the head.

"Ow! What was that for?" It wasn't actually that hard, and he does laugh a bit out of shock if nothing else.

"Being _very boring_. Pouting?" She turns her face to him long enough to cock an eyebrow and smirk.

"Maybe we should talk," he says, suddenly even more serious.

She rolls her eyes comically hard, let's out a long exaggerated groan. 

"Look, you are a nice boy. Very good looking, lots of fun..._usually._ But if I wanted doting husband, I would have one." She gestures to the roof, clearly indicating Steve in the crow's nest. "Don't care if you call me your girlfriend, but don't care if you have another one either. Or a boyfriend, or whatever. Life is very short, maybe going to get even shorter soon. I _did_ the traditional thing. He was a good man, so mostly worth it. But...not looking to do it again." 

Luis just stares at her with a shocked face, silent.

"If you need children, commitment, _control,_ not the woman for you. We can be anything we want now. End of the fucking world." 

"So I keep hearing." Luis grins a bit thinking about the conversation on the basketball court, despite himself. 

She flashes him a huge smile, as if the apocalypse is some sort of exciting challenge, a game that can be bested, a mystery just waiting to reveal all of its glorious secrets to her. Much like the mechanic before him, the green-eyed man realizes he is seriously out of his depth. With the exception of Winter, he's sure she'll outlive them all. 

Steve has never seen Win lack self-confidence or back down from anything, but he is filled with sympathy and concern as he watches her face twist when they approach the doors of the factory. It's unimaginable what she must have went through alone in her own former workplace, all of those bodies so near for so long, only the faintest hint of daylight coming through the small windows up high off the floor near the ceiling. There was not a soft, comfortable thing anywhere in the place, not even an ounce of base comfort, no one to talk to. Somehow his experiences had left him shattered - very slowly gluing little shards back into place like reassembling a ceramic serving bowl dropped on a tiled floor, some pieces never to be found again - but Win's had forged her into steel. She only lets the sadness wash over her for a brief few seconds and then he sees her take a deep breath, close her eyes, and exhale it all out. Her tiny shoulders square up, and she's the second one inside after Buck, rifle ready. 

Brock and his men had already broken into the place, stolen anything of immediate value, but the pumps are large and completely useless to someone without a settlement, a water supply, the appropriate tools and knowledge to hook them up properly. The factory had pumped constantly through pipes from the river at the edge of the property when it was operational. Paper manufacturing required massive quantities of water - the pumps were state-of-the-art, high-end green technology, designed to be energy efficient, leak-proof, and run with virtually no maintenance or observation.

They are able to take the majority of the pumps apart manually, very little torching required, though they do cut a few additional lengths of pipe. Clint of course repeatedly says _pump_ and _pipe_ punctuated with a lot of chuckling. Luis, helping him carry the latter to the truck over and over, can't help but laugh at his immature humor and the variety of other ludicrous comments that constantly stream out of him. Nat, painfully out of her element and already bored of searching through the picked over building, is leaning up against the side of the cargo box. She's been eyeing their interactions with obvious interest.

"Wait!" she orders them after they finish another deposit in the truck. She takes a quick look around, ensuring they are alone.

"I'm only going to say this once, so listen up doublefucks. As long as Clint doesn't screw around with anyone besides you, you can do whatever the hell you want with or without me around." The redhead fixes the younger man with a terrifying stare. Luis - as has become his usual - goes wide-eyed. "Exception being of course that I'm directly involved, a la our previous activities. In return, if Win and I feel like doing things without the two of you, then that's going to happen. It's only fair. Quid pro quo. Also, I expect my wifely needs to continue being serviced at the same quality and quantity that they are now." 

Clint grins wide and reaches for her. "Awww baby, you're the be-" 

She puts a hand up abruptly, stopping him and fixing him with a look. "If you get any ideas about _replacing_ me, or any of my very simple rules are violated, I will cut your balls off. Both of your balls off if you're both guilty. And that isn't a metaphor, boys. I will literally remove your testicles from your body. Do we have an understanding?" 

The archer, smiling broadly, moves his head up and down vigorously. Luis, his green eyes still massive, gives her a very slow, small nod.

"Okay, back to work, goons. This box isn't gonna stuff itself with pipe." 

"Heheheheh," her husband responds.

"No offense, but your wife scares the shit out of me, dude," Luis says when they have a moment alone in the factory office. He's sitting on the floor rustling through random papers and junk while the others cut more pipe, Clint digging through cabinets a few feet away.

Clint sighs almost nostalgically. "I know. That's why I fell in love with her."

"So, did you... ask her...about that.. about me...or...?" The green eyes flit to the taller man shyly then focus on the floor, refusing to look at the archer as he slides down next to him.

"No! No. I was gonna let things settle down first, and then if I was sure you weren't super pissed at me anymore, I was gonna talk to you and then her."

"I got a _do whatever you want with whoever you want because I'm nobody's wifey_ speech from Win this morning." He finally looks at Clint. "I think we've been conspired against."

"Or conspired _for._" The archer flashes him a gorgeous smile, staring into his eyes. He turns uncharacteristically serious. "Look, regardless of what they say, you don't have to feel pressured to do anything that you don't want to -" 

Luis cuts him off with a sudden kiss, and after a few seconds of shock, the archer returns it. Their lips move slow and soft. When the younger man pulls away, he's blushing. He's up like a shot and out of the room, leaving the bigger man sitting alone on the ground wearing a stupid grin.

Loading the pumps goes fast with Buck able to carry each of the large, several-hundred-pounds apparatus by himself to the truck. They use comforters pilfered from the hotel to wrap them in, to keep them from banging together, and then strap them in securely along the front of the box. Even though Steve feels a bit guilty for blowing up the old pump - and going through this entire ruse, possibly putting them all in danger with the remainder of his plan - he has to admit that they would have never ventured this far for these without his actions. The pumps will completely change life at the junktown, making access to water for both necessities and luxuries far easier and less wasteful than their current leaky, outdated, inefficient equipment. 

After they finish loading the truck, they all settle down for some lunch in a loose circle on and around the rear of the vehicle. They are suspiciously silent, none of them quite sure how to broach the subject of what comes next with those who don't know. Finally, Hill shatters the quiet.

"What the hell are you all up to?" She juts her chin at Clint. "He doesn't even shut up in his sleep and he hasn't said a word in an hour."

Jasper sighs and takes the apparatus out of his shoulder bag that he had used to open the penthouse door and lock it again when they left.

"You may have already guessed this, Steven, but I brought this because I know exactly where we're going and we'll need it to get in. So you can all stop with the charade."

The blonde shrugs nonchalantly from his seat on the back of the cargo box. It had occurred to him after Buck mentioned the device, but he'd hoped and prayed he was wrong. They couldn't have Fury swooping in to meddle. All the ex-ops had transmitters that would reach him (or anyone on the east coast). The Soldier stands up straighter, mouth pressing into a grimace.

"What does he mean? Where else are we going?" Maria demands. 

"The main facility where they..._trained_ Buck."

The Soldier takes a decidedly unfriendly step towards the bespectacled man from where he had been against the truck, eyes lighting up like two halogen bulbs. 

"Oh, what the hell?!" Hill exclaims, rising quickly. "Fuck _you goddamn idiots_ for getting me involved in this." 

"How do you know about the facility, Jasper?" Steve asks warily. "Buck would remember if you worked there. Were you...over the people who did?"

"I was important, but never that important. I was called in to discuss their viability for an operation coordinated through my office."

"I do not recall seeing you visit, as I did Fury," Buck says in a blatantly accusatory tone.

"You... they...were in stasis. I only reviewed footage and discussed the Soldiers' applicability to the task at hand. Look, I didn't say anything to Nick about what we're doing and I won't."

"Thank you. I really appreciate that." The mechanic gives him a little smile and nod, which makes Buck scowl even harder.

"Of course. Anything you need." Sitwell swallows. "For the mission," he adds. "Fury has no idea where the facility is. He seems unaware of your intentions. He has a tell sometimes, when he's lying to someone he knows well. I didn't see it." 

"I did not even know its location when I was housed there. They would not have permitted you to see the route you were taken on, the same as Fury. If you were not in charge, how did you ascertain our destination was the facility based on the direction of our travel? Why did you not believe we were only travelling to obtain the pumps?" the Soldier demands, eyes narrowing.

Jasper looks back to the mechanic. "I...may have...watched you a bit after we argued. You obviously sabotaged the pump, which meant this is all a diversion from your real goal. A means to an end to get supplies, transportation. I didn't know the exact location, but I was able to deduce the region. It's something they teach you, as a spy, learning how to keep track of what direction you're going in on foot or in transportation, even in an aircraft, were you to be blindfolded or otherwise incapacitated. I put two and two together."

Buck crosses the distance to Jasper in a flash, hoists him off the ground by the front of his jacket. "Liar!"

"Eh, Winter, come on man! You don't know that!" Luis starts to approach. The brunette turns, bares his teeth and growls at him, stopping him in his tracks. 

Steve jumps to his feet. "Buck!" 

The Soldier gives Sitwell a hard shake. "He was _spying_ on you! He is obsessed with you! He will say or do anything to gain your trust!" 

"The only person obsessed here is you!" Jasper counters, clutching the big man's wrist with both hands. To his credit, or in a testament to his arrogance, he doesn't look afraid. "I was just trying to work up the nerve to apologize to him, to admit the truth. That I can't stand seeing him, hearing him, _with something like you._" 

"I'd love to watch you shake him like a PTA mom hopped up on her kid's Ritalin," Clint says to the bigger man, "but we also need him to _not_ be a quadriplegic if he's going to get us in to the facility."

"I will rip the doors down!" Buck insists, his teeth out, as he brings his captive closer to his face. 

"Yeah, like you'll carry a cargo truck across a river." Greta shoots a look at Clint that says _thanks for swelling his head, fucking dumbass_. "You told me the place has blast doors, kiddo. It was designed to keep twenty-four of you in, it will definitely keep one of you out. Put the little rodent down." 

"I do not take orders anymore. Not from you," he spits at the older woman before turning back to Sitwell, "not from men like him! Men who only wish to own, subjugate, _use_." 

"He's not a threat to us. He wants to help!" Steve insists from beside him. 

"People like him are the worst kind of threat. They engender loyalty to gain control." 

"You do feel threatened by me, but it isn't because of who you think I used to be," Jasper sneers. "Steven gives me even the faintest praise, the littlest attention, and your hackles are up. Why is that?" 

"He is a kind person. He pities you. He could befriend you. You will use that against him. That is what your kind do." 

"And what do your kind do? I saw the footage, before you had limiters, long before they could tell you what to do and you had to comply without question. I've seen your kind rip people apart, even children."

"Do you want him to fucking kill you?" Greta barks. "Shut your goddamn mouth."

"You're afraid, because I'm something you'll never be, _Buck_. A person. And every day that will only become more obvious to Steven, as you kill in front of him, as you thirst for him, as you throw one too many tantrums and finally kill someone who matters to him. Eventually he'll see what you are, especially as you go on, ageless, while he gets gray and feeble. I may not be big and buff and supercharged, but I can grow old with him. I can love him without wanting to _devour_ him. I can understand what it is to be human."

"I'm not sure that you can," Steve half-whispers, face twisting, as he steps closer. 

"Do you know the words?!" Buck demands of Sitwell. 

"Words?" 

"**To control the others!**" Buck shakes him hard again. 

"I declined to use the Soldiers and even if I had agreed, I would've never been granted access to their command sequences. I would have given the mission parameters to the facility staff and they would have done the programming." 

"_Programming._ We are not machines! **We are not things**! I will not allow you to control the others!" His irises go nearly white, mouth opening wide, teeth as long as any of them have ever seen.

A gunshot cracks loud, making them all jump or freeze. When they turn towards the sound, Hill has her smoking sidearm pointed at the sky. 

"Enough!!!" Maria yells. "We'll tie him up in the truck just to be safe and _I'll_ run the code finder for the door." 

"You shouldn't let her do that!" Jasper finally sounds like he's losing his cool.

"Put him down, please." The blonde rests a hand lightly on his arm, looks up at him with his sea-blue eyes filled with concern, sadness, affection; the Soldier realizes he may as well be chipped - he cannot refuse the little mechanic almost anything. 

Buck eases Sitwell to the ground, lets Clint and Luis take him. 

"This is a big mistake. You can't trust he-" Jasper is cut off when Nat slugs him in the jaw, knocking him cold.

"God, I thought he'd never stop talking." The redhead rolls her eyes.

Hill turns to Coulson as she holsters her weapon. "You could have been a bit more specific when you said you needed me to cover for you, Phil. **Jesus Christ.** Fury will shit a brick when we show up with the Soldiers! A lot of people are already scared of Buck after the reavertown. It'll be pandemonium when there's a **small army** of them." 

"I'm sorry, okay. I got...carried away in the group zeitgeist." Coulson shrugs. "But think of it, the safety and prosperity they could provide Claptrap! Especially with the crate -" 

"No," Buck interjects sternly. "I will not take them to the junktown, to remain slaves. To live in the shadow of people like Sitwell and Fury." 

He turns to stalk off into the woods nearby. Moments later they can hear the unmistakable sound of his metal fist thudding against a tree trunk. A pine topples over with a loud crash, then a bit later another.

Steve's heart sinks into his stomach.


	67. Hot boxin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deals with a few setbacks.

The little mechanic presses close to him, arms wrapping around his waist from behind, a gesture of comfort. He slowly lets the tension drain from his body, leans back as much as he can being so much heavier than the petite man. Steve climbs around into his lap. The slender legs straddle his hips. The clever fingers undo the top of his own shirt and jacket, pull the collars to the side. He is offering his soft little neck to be drank from.

So many days he could think of nothing else but his heartbeat deep inside the little mechanic, flooding him with ecstasy, bonding them together. He knows it isn't safe here, isn't practical, isn't appropriate, but all of his senses are on fire. All he can see is the flicker of the blonde's pulse under his creamy skin. All he can smell is Steve's incredible aroma, so thick in his nostrils he can taste him. All he can feel is the warmth of him. All he can hear is the want, whispering a thousand promises about forgetting - what he has done, what he is, the threat that the blonde can never really love him, accept him. 

He buries his teeth in the smaller man, groaning as hot blood sprays into his mouth. The little mechanic is so sweet, unlike anything else he has tasted. His arms tighten around him, lift him effortlessly. He forces his pulse into him easily, making Steve go limp in his grasp and moan helplessly. He's drugged so quickly, lost in a red haze of pleasure as he sucks gluttonously. 

Suddenly he realizes the smaller man is silent.

He pulls away and the sea-blue eyes are glazed and vacant, staring but seeing nothing. His skin no longer glows with vitality but is wan and graying. The wound in his neck is massive - he can see artery, muscle, tendon through the ragged hole - and his shirt is soaked with blood down to his narrow waist. 

Buck is screaming and flailing, metal arm smashing into the wall of the cargo box so hard he dents it severely. His heart is hammering inside his chest, breath so labored he feels like he is drowning. Tears fall hot down his cheeks as he bellows, his noises deafening in the confined space. There are pale faces in the dark, looking at him with horror, whispering.

_Monster. Abomination. Creature. Parasite. Devourer. _

"Winter. Winter, buddy it's okay. You're safe. You're here with us."

Luis. Crawling slowly closer. The dim of the cargo box is empty save the two of them, Sitwell and Maria. 

"Steve, Steve!" Buck sobs, looking around frantically. "Steve!"

"He's just up in the nest getting some air. It's so warm in here. You were zonked after playing lumberjack and he didn't want to wake you." The green eyed man offers him a little smile, reaches out hesitantly. 

"Maybe that's not such a good idea. It doesn't seem stable," Hill warns, pressed back in the far corner. 

The younger man whirls on her. "Don't fucking call him _it_, lady."

"_He_ looked ready to take your head off earlier is all I'm saying." 

"He'd never hurt me. Never." Luis turns back to Buck, puts his hand gently on the bigger man's arm.

"I could. I could. I could," the Soldier whispers frantically, shaking his head.

Steve comes down through the ceiling hatch, dangles off the end of the mini ladder welded to the ceiling and drops gracelessly to the floor. "What was that noise?" 

He's barely said the words and the Soldier is on him, arms around his waist as he sobs into his shirt, face pressed against his sternum. 

"Steve, Steve, Steve..." he says again and again like a rosary prayer.

The mechanic raises his eyebrows at Luis. 

"I think he had a nightmare," the green eyed man says sympathetically. He turns to Maria. "Let's get some air." 

"It's crowded up there."

"Your ass is narrow. It'll be fine." He gestures to the hatch with a quick jerk of his head. 

It had become apparent several days ago that the two did not really get along. He had told a few of the others that something about the woman just rubbed him the wrong way. Hill for her part felt like he was a useless tag along and didn't understand why they brought him instead of another solid fighter. She rolls her eyes, but squeezes out on the nest with him and the others, Luis closing the hatch after them. 

When the blonde tries to ease Buck back enough to look at him, the bigger man resists, grip tightening like a boa constrictor. He's crying hard now - something his partner has never seen him do - the broad shoulders heaving. 

"It's okay, it's okay," Steve assures him, rubbing circles on his upper back with one hand while he gently strokes his hair with the other. The Soldier only clings harder. "Sweetheart," the petite man gasps, "you're crushing me." 

The grip immediately loosens. 

"Were you dreaming...about the facility? You don't have to be afraid of that place. I'll be with you." 

The brunette is trembling as he sits up straight, as he runs his big hands over Steve's chest, neck and face. 

"You are safe. You are safe."

"Of course I am." Steve smiles, slowly leans down to kiss his forehead. "Nothing's gonna happen to me. I know you won't let it. You'll have my back and I'll have yours." 

Buck suddenly buries his face against the other man and sobs loud, arms going back around him. The mechanic eyes the indentation in the wall of the truck. That swing would have collapsed someone's ribcage. If he'd been sitting next to him, his head could have been dented in. The Soldier had been living with him nearly a year, truly awake over another year before that, in therapy for months, and yet this episode was his worst ever. The blonde realizes, not for the first time, they're painfully out of their depth waking the others. 

The Soldier is like glue on Steve the entire afternoon and Nat and Clint cover their rotation in the nest. He refuses to speak, just leans his head against the smaller man's chest listening to his heart with his arms looped around him. The mechanic gets increasingly worried the longer he stays so upset. Nothing he says to him seems to make a difference. 

They run into a small band of cannibals just before dark but easily best them, even with Buck noticeably hanging back. It takes the mechanic nearly twenty minutes of insisting then cajoling, and eventually begging, to get Buck to drink from their corpses. Even then he won't do it anywhere nearby, dragging two of them far off into the scrub as the daylight fades, leaving the others to nervously wait with the truck. He's meticulously clean when he returns, quiet and somber. Where he couldn't stop touching the mechanic before, now he avoids being close to him. 

When they finally set up for the night, Greta, Clint, Hill, Coulson and Nat take Steve away from the campsite, far enough that they hope the Soldier can't hear them. Luis and Win stay back to babysit Buck and Sitwell, who has finally woken up after being out cold for hours. 

"I don't know about this, kiddo. He seems like he's coming more unglued the closer we get," Greta offers. 

"We can't rein in one of them. What are we supposed to do with two dozen?" Nat adds.

"They won't all be really awake at once. And he'll have total control of the others," Steve argues, even though several of his internal voices are vigorously agreeing with the women.

"He doesn't have control of himself!" the older woman counters. 

"I was all for this when I thought they were coming back to protect Claptrap. But now we're risking our lives and Nick's wrath for what? For him to wander off into the sunset with them?" Phil questions. "Don't get me wrong. He was royally and epically fucked over. I would love to think that having the others in his life, helping them re-acclimate, will bring him some kind of peace. But we don't know the outcome." 

"Maybe facing his fear is exactly what he needs," Hill counters. "Unimaginable things were done to him in that place. Maybe he needs to see that it's just another empty building gathering dust. Even if we don't free the Soldiers, or they're dead, I think it's important for him to go. To know."

"What she said!" Clint points at Maria. "Come on, folks. The big guy really needs this. We're already so close! Another day and a half and we're there." 

"I think they're right. I think this is what he needs to make himself whole again," Steve agrees. "Or as whole as he can be made after everything. If you were taking me someplace I really needed to go and I had a nightmare, woke up screaming and freaking out, you wouldn't be having this conversation. Shit, I punched Clint so many times just for putting his hand on my arm. You guys put up with a lot of shit from me because my head wasn't on straight. Buck shouldn't be judged by a different standard because of what he is." 

"Sweet pea, you know I love Bucky," Greta offers. "You know I'd do anything for my kids. But we can't deny that he is different. He could really hurt someone. Not on purpose! But he still could." 

"And he could just as easily back in Claptrap too! Or do you think he doesn't belong there either?" Steve grits out. 

"No one is saying that!" Nat counters. 

"If we go back, he'll probably just try to find it alone. And God knows what will happen then with that nut job looking for him," the archer says. "He could trap Buck, figure out a way to use him to find the crate, the town. I mean, you guys have all heard the rumors that he's some kind of experiment himself. Luis says he has hundreds of people in his army. Maybe he has scientists working for him. Ones that could tap in to all that wiring in our boy's brain and figure out exactly where he's been."

"That may be the smartest thing you've ever said, Barton," Maria replies. 

"That's actually," Nat rolls her eyes, "not the dumbest idea you've ever had, Clint. I guess." 

The archer grins like she's told him he's a rocket scientist.

"Bucky is stubborn as an ox, just like you kiddo," Greta says to Steve. "I hadn't considered he might just take off on his own if we didn't go with him. After seeing him all burnt up...we need to look out for him. He's not invincible." 

"Well fuck. Considering all that does throw a wrench in things," Phil breathes, looking down. "Shit!" he adds, snatching his blinking com off his belt. "We've got a more immediate problem. Someone is using Jasper's communicator."

Win is up in the nest when they return to the truck. "Hot in there," she offers. 

When Clint opens the back of the truck, Luis and Sitwell are alone inside. Buck is gone. Before any of them can get a word out, gunfire erupts. They scatter. 

"You slimy fuck!" the archer screams at Jasper as he jumps into the box for cover. "Who did you call?"

"It was him!" Sitwell, hands tied in front, gestures at Luis. "He sold you out!" 

"I didn't!" the younger man yells. 

Hill pops in, closing the door behind her and latching it. "Looks like we're surrounded! White Xs all around." 

"The kid called them! It was him!" Jasper insists.

"I didn't fucking call _them_!" the younger man argues.

"You little weasel! You can't have Steve, so you'd rather just see him and everyone he cares about dead!" Barton kicks Jasper.

"I would never put Steven in danger!" 

"Crossbones had Luis before we found him. Maybe he turned him, planted him as insurance if the fire pit didn't work out," Maria reasons. "Maybe that's why he got _involved_ with you and the welder. So you'd trust him, let your guard down." 

"Puta flaca mala! I would never..." Luis sees Clint giving him a look. "Do you really think I would put any of you in danger? Sell Winter out? Clint, I - " 

Hill clocks him upside the head with the butt of her gun, knocking him cold. "We don't have time for this shit! We need to get up top!"

The archer grabs his bow and quiver.


	68. Benedict Arnold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang has a traitor in their midst.
> 
> ***Thank you so much for everyone who has given kudos to this work! I hit 100 today and I'm so humbled! 💜💙🧡***

Hill is dangling from the hatch ladder, about to pull herself up, when she feels someone grab the pistol from her holster. The back of the truck opens with a loud squawk moments later and she can just make out a form jumping out into the semi-darkness. It's a moonlit night but the lone electric lamp in the box of the truck is now shut off and they're just a shadow as they leap through the dimly lit opening. Luis and Sitwell are similar in height and it's impossible to tell who vacated and who's left with the cargo box pitch black inside.

"Fuck!" she hisses, continuing her ascent to the crow's nest with her rifle strapped across her back. "One of them grabbed my sidearm and ran out," she informs Clint and Win when she's reached her perch, shutting the trapdoor.

They duck low, bullets whizzing past. 

"Must be Jasper. Why would Luis-" the welder starts. 

"Someone made a call on Jasper's transponder and then minutes later these assholes showed up. We don't know who the culprit is and I couldn't see shit in there!" Maria explains. 

Win's eyes go wide, brows furrowing. 

"We can't worry about that right now. Did you get a look at how many are out there?" the archer questions.

"A metric shitton for all the manpower we have!" she grits out, checking her weapon.

"Fifty, maybe sixty," the welder states, doing the same with her rifle. 

Clint's goggles hang around his neck, night vision pointless under the full moon. He has an arrow notched and ready to fly. "Did you see any of the others before you took cover?" 

Hill and Win shake their heads. 

"Shitfuck! Okay, okay, we need to get eyes on them. We pop up in three, cover every side. Ready?" 

The women nod.

"One, two, three!" 

The second Clint is semi-upright, a bullet rips through him and he tumbles from the nest to the ground below, pulling Win with him when she tries to stop his fall.

Steve and Greta are between a burnt out car and a low brick building with boarded over windows twenty yards from the truck. There's other cars, debris and what's left of a tall garage blocking their vantage to their vehicle. They'd parked the truck in the remnants of a tiny, bombed out town, Buck scenting the air briefly and assuring them no one was near before curling back in on himself and falling into a fitful sleep. Maria had sent up the drone and a few of the others searched what was left of the remaining structures. There had been no sign of anyone, the attack taking them completely by surprise an hour later. Fortunately, the mechanic and the survivalist had the same instinct to memorize hiding places, even when there was no imminent threat, and they'd bolted to this one simultaneously. 

The pair alternate popping out from different vantages to fire their rifles at the attackers, getting several clean head shots and wounding others. The mechanic ducks down low, squeezes his petite body beneath the car - its tires are deflated, leaving it sat low to the ground, making visibility under it difficult to their opponents with all the trash blown against it. Steve starts shooting knee caps and ankles as quickly as he can, reloading then firing kill shots at the downed. Their enemies take cover behind several other vehicles, cautious to expose their legs to the sniper. 

The older woman takes a grenade off her belt, kisses it, pulls the pin and whips it hard over the top of a pickup that several of the men are using as a shield. It goes off spectacularly, showering the surrounding area with glass and debris, the boom making their ears ring loud. She runs out quick, taking advantage of the deafening after effect, and guns down the others as they crouch behind an ancient, battered Cadillac. The mechanic joins her swiftly, providing cover as two more round the garage, careful not to get too close to the flaming wreckage. 

A burst from a machine gun flares from a mutilated survivor of the explosion and a bullet cuts through Steve's thigh. Greta shoots the assailant dead seconds later. The blonde is down, hot blood spreading inside his date-night jeans. The older woman grabs him by the back of the collar, drags him into their previous hiding space. She wraps her belt tight around his leg above the wound to slow the blood flow, then ties a bandana over the hole itself. The older woman leaves him with a promise to get help.

Nat doesn't have eyes on the others as she crouches behind a bench. She launches an electro disc into the nearest attacker as they pass by, strength set as high as it will go. It stops his heart, drops him instantly. She somersaults over the bench - both pistols drawn and pointed in different directions - and fires, taking out two more. Another whirls on her and she kicks him hard in the crotch then shoots him through the eye socket as he bends forward. 

The redhead sees a group headed towards the truck. She runs at them full speed, jumps up and wraps her legs around the neck of the person in the center. Leaning back she uses her weight to flip them over, firing at the people on either side as she arcs back. The others drop and the top of her ride's head smashes into the ground seconds later. She lands perfectly on her feet, putting a headshot in the one with the cracked skull, just in case. From a hundred feet away she sees Clint and Win fall from the truck - Maria doesn't seem to notice, facing the other direction, firing, ducking, firing again. Nat is suddenly struck by a blunt object hard from behind. 

Minutes later, one of her electro discs is shot into Hill's back, knocking her cold. She slumps and falls from the crow's nest, rifle falling to the ground. 

Win has Clint pulled under the truck, her own arm and side bleeding now from bullet grazes. He took a shot to the right side of his chest just above his flack vest and he's only semi-conscious, wheezing and coughing out blood as his lung fills with it. She rips the hole in his shirt wide, exposing the wound. Pulling a pair of long, thin tweezers from one of her cargo pockets, she cleans them with an alcohol wipe from another. The welder urges him not to move, slides them in the bloody hole and yanks out the bullet. He whimpers and groans. 

She pulls an arrow from his quiver, takes a pair of tin snips off of her utility belt and cuts a three inch length of the aluminum shaft from it, sanitizes it as well and then jams it in the gunshot hole. Blood gurgles out for a few terrifying moments, but then the tube is sucking in air. He's passed out from the pain. Win cleans around the wound and then her bloody hands with the wipes. She has just enough time to rest her head on his shoulder and sigh with relief before she sees Maria thud hard on the ground a few feet away. A hand clutches Win's ankle and yanks her from beneath the truck. The butt of a gun smashes into her skull. 

Steve can hear more approaching. He clutches his rifle, gets his good leg underneath him, pops up quickly and shoots one through the windpipe. The other breaks left, rolls over the trunk of the car onto the mechanic's side and is on him in seconds. They struggle for the rifle, but the man is significantly bigger and stronger. Steve pulls with as much force as he can at the weapon with both hands, making the other man do it harder as well. Then the blonde quickly reverses direction, using his own strength and the momentum of the other man's pulling to smash the side of the gun barrel into his attacker's throat. The bigger man stumbles back, Steve turning quick to take aim, but his assailant is able to slap the end of the rifle away from him before the mechanic fires. 

The other man kicks the blonde hard in the chest, winding him and breaking a rib. The blonde sees spots as the gun is yanked from him, the butt slammed into his belly. The attacker turns the weapon to fire into his shoulder, but it clicks empty. He stomps hard on the smaller man's wounded thigh instead, making him scream. Suddenly he's on the blonde, pinning his right arm with one knee, grabbing his left wrist and squeezing his throat. Steve flails uselessly, injured leg, chest and belly agonizing as he tries to kick. It's hard to stay awake as his vision grays.

"You remember me, faggot?" his attacker rasps, a bright red streak over his windpipe. 

The man leans close. He has sandy brown, greasy curls, a thick, twisted scar running vertical from the right side of his upper lip just over a missing canine, the empty socket revealed as he smiles. His right pupil is cloudy and there's more scar tissue around his eye. 

"Vullo," Steve chokes out. "Brock's...fucking...foot soldier...trash."

The bigger man releases the blonde's throat, slaps the side of his face hard a few times. "I still owe you. For what you did to my face, you little homo piece of shit!"

"I'm...the homo..." Steve grits out, "But you're the one..." he coughs, "that put your dick in my ass." 

"Oh, quit your whining." Vullo grips the smaller man's windpipe again. "I barely got five pumps in because you," he squeezes tighter, "rammed your hard head back into my face, then," he squeezes tighter still, "got up and smashed me with a fucking rock a bunch of times. I lost most of my sight on that side." 

"Said...no. Should have... listened," the blonde gasps. 

"Brock shouldn't have put you in the dreg pit if we weren't supposed to have fun with you. You're lucky Jack got there so quick or I would have gutted you. You're lucky Crossbones wants you alive since you made friends with the Soldier. He didn't specify _unfucked_ though." He grins wide. "You killed my friends when you blew up Jack's truck, you little bitch." He spits in Steve's face. "And that's more saliva than I'm gonna put on my dick before I ram it in you at least twice for each one of them." 

Vullo releases the mechanic's throat, pulls a length of wire from his pocket. "I remember he always had to use this. You'd get out of handcuffs or rope." 

He wraps it around the blonde's left wrist as he struggles and screams, as much as he can manage with his broken rib and bruised throat. 

"If only he'd gotten bored of you, dumped you along the road. None of this would have happened. I wouldn't have to serve a fucking freak." 

Vullo grabs Steve's hair, pulls his head up and then slams it down on the ground twice, hard. While the smaller man is disoriented, he quickly rolls him over, puts a knee into his back, pulling the wire wrapped wrist up high with one hand, sending blinding pain through the smaller man. He grabs Steve's free arm, pulls his hands together, binds him quick and tight. The blonde groans, trying to get his bearings. He's aware but he can't move much, head spinning, stomach lurching as he weakly flails. Vullo slides his ass back, pinning the mechanic's legs, and yanks his pants down to his thighs.

"I hope you're not too blown out after how many poundings he gave you." He leans down over Steve, breath hot in his ear as he undoes his own belt. "I loved when we got to camp close to Brock's truck. I used to beat off to the sounds of him fucking you. You never cried for him though. You'll cry for me." 

The blonde hears the unmistakable sound of something striking the back of Vullo's skull, and the bigger man collapses off of him.

"I'm really sorry about this, Steve," a familiar voice says as hands pulls his pants up. 

The blonde expects to be freed, but he's gripped by his wire wrapped wrists and pulled up onto his knees. Four sharp points jam into the back of his slender neck, attaching something there. More of Crossbones people approach as Steve is lifted to his feet, hop-walked on his bum leg towards them. "I got him and he's tagged. We can take off."

"What about the Winter Soldier?" one of them asks. "The plan was to use this one to make it comply. We haven't spotted it." 

"I told him I heard something off in the woods. Sent him on a wild goose chase." 

"It has excellent hearing. Why didn't it know you were lying?" The new person is suspicious, eyes narrowed. 

"He was asleep. Look, we couldn't have him ripping through everyone before we had our insurance policy," the person holding the blonde's wrists replies. "He'll follow. Trust me. Then we'll trap him. He'll do anything we want to protect this one." 

"Where are the other junktownies?" the Xer asks. 

"Most of them are locked up in the cargo box of the truck. We're just missing two, and I'm pretty sure one of them ran off." The person edges Steve along. 

Suddenly the others are shot from behind, blood spraying the blonde. Greta is standing there when their bodies drop.

"How could you?" she questions, voice shaking, rifle still raised.


	69. Celling the Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fresh horror awaits Buck and the crew.

Grabbing Hill's gun had been a spur of the moment decision, but he had to protect himself. They were being shot at after all, and soon enough his own crew might be aiming their guns at him as well. He leaps from the cargo box, runs as hard as he can while crouching low, makes it the short distance past a few blackened, broken houses to their big back yards. The woods are close as he's fired upon, automatic weapons shredding the high weeds on the overgrown properties as he ducks and dodges. One slices his calf but it's only a surface injury. He stumbles briefly but keeps running through it as the white hot flare of pain subsides to a dull burn.

Then he's weaving between trees, half of them dead. As it stayed warmer more consistently, insects, parasites and bacteria were able to survive longer and longer, especially farther north, than was normal. That also allowed them to multiply faster, and spread wider than ever before, destroying crops and contributing to human illness. Winters weren't getting cold enough a lot of places for a die cycle and they reproduced exponentially. Every living thing had suffered for it but especially the trees and big swaths of forests were now just so many dried out trunks and barren limbs. Add to that the increased prevalence of forest fires and it had only exacerbated the greenhouse gas effect - less trees to filter CO2 or to make clean oxygen. The bigger ones, even no longer alive, still make reasonable cover as he runs serpentine around them.

When he's far enough out, he screams for Buck. There's an abandoned farm in a clearing - no doubt he was there investigating, but why hadn't he heard the gunfire and headed back already? He runs inside the farm house, its front door already wide open. There's no one, but he can see bootprints in the dust and follows them, first through that floor then into the basement. He finds the big man just standing at the base of the stairs, wearing a large pair of expensive, wireless noise cancelling headphones, made to mimic a vintage style. They're the kind with built in mp3 storage - the bastard is listening to tunes while his friends get shot at. 

When he descends a few steps farther he realizes the basement is littered with the dead. They're at least five years old judging from the decomp but their matching lettered track jackets are still visible. It's a sports team, highschoolers - complete with several coaches and other adults, probably parents - judging from their body sizes and attire. It's hard to tell after so long what happened but the placement of their corpses, a few obviously torn pants and what look like ancient blood spatters, tells a pretty unpleasant story. He knows better than to just walk up and tap the Soldier - he waits. Seconds later the bigger man tilts his head up slightly, clearly scenting him, whips around, eyes glowing bright and teeth bared. 

Obviously surprised at who has followed him, the Soldier advances slowly in confusion, sliding the headphones around his neck, music just able to be heard from them now that they aren't pressed to his head. He eyes Maria's weapon. There's no time for elaborate explanations or even hellos - the people in pursuit burst through the basement door. He whirls away from Buck, shoots both the intruders between the eyes with Hill's gun.

"Campsite is under attack!" Jasper finally barks, running back up the stairs.

When he makes it outside there's more Xers, firing on him from behind the treeline. Sitwell ducks back inside as Buck bursts out a basement window, runs on all fours and leaps high into one of the trees. Their assailants fire wildly up into the branches as he jumps between them, but he's fast, _so fast_. He throws knives down into one, two, three then leaps onto the remaining fourth, tears her throat out with his teeth. Then the Soldier is running through the woods towards the town.

Sitwell yells after him, "Be careful! _Luis_ called them!"

Buck bursts through the treeline - he's shot at immediately from multiple sides, machine gun fire cutting through him, save what's covered by the new vest Fury had given him. There's no time for evasion - he needs to find the others. He runs straight at his attackers, tears then apart with his hands and teeth. His wounds heal even as he runs, pushing the bullets out that did not pass through. Another comes at him with a flame thrower, then another and another armed the same. They're ready for him, or so they think, launching their streams simultaneously.

The Soldier leaps high, lands behind one, pulls the tube feeding the accelerant from the tank on their back to the weapon in their hands, then kicks them hard like an athlete would a football. They fly into one of the other's fire streams and Buck leaps away as first the human projectile's tank and then the second person's explode in two massive, quickly conjoining fireballs. Two shots from the woods blows the third tank. The brunette has just enough presence of mind to be impressed Sitwell hit the target with a handgun, while running, at such a range. It's no small feat for a human. He's moving with surprising speed as well for someone who sat behind a desk for a decade and is nearing middle age - the Soldier now recalls seeing him leave his shanty in what appeared to be jogging clothes more than once. 

The cargo box of their truck is padlocked shut from the outside. Buck rips it off effortlessly. He finds Nat, Win, Clint and Hill inside, all severely injured and out cold or barely awake. The Soldier leaps in, seeing the archer is badly wounded. There's a familiar smell - Luis. He's behind Clint, slumped in the corner, unconscious.

"Luis is here!" Buck calls to Sitwell, who nervously eyes the scenery as the Soldier goes to work healing Clint.

"Yeah, Hill knocked him cold after I told them about the call."

"If he is with them, as you claim, why did they not take him when they put the others here?" He takes the headphones off, tosses them.

Buck checks the younger man's vitals, then the others. None of their injuries are life-threatening. He leaps from the truck, closes the door.

"He's outlived his usefulness to them maybe," Jasper replies.

"But why spare the others? And where is Steve?" he demands eyes flaring.

They hear familiar rifle fire - Greta. Running towards it, they have to cut down a dozen more Xers. Sitwell uses Buck as cover as he rips through them, running behind and firing around him. He gets repeated headshots to anyone the Soldier doesn't kill immediately.

"I'm almost empty!" Jasper yells.

They round the remnants of a tall garage and the older woman is standing there, pointing her rifle at someone. They have Steve's hands behind his back and he's injured badly several places, already-dark jeans nearly black with blood down one thigh to his knee, throat bearing bright red finger marks. He looks dazed - possibly a head injury. Buck stalks forward, eyes white with rage, growling low in his chest.

"Stop if you want him to live!" Phil orders, pulling the blonde back a step by his bound wrists.

Coulson holds up one arm to show a device wrapped around his wrist, a sensor over his pulse. It has two extensions that cover his thumb and pointer, sensor pad over the tip of the latter and a row of them up the former. Buck knows this device and freezes, recalls what it can do. Phil turns Steve abruptly, revealing the disc attached to the back of his neck, then whirls him around again before he can try to bite or headbutt him. Coulson has seen the blonde in action enough to know how utterly feral he becomes when cornered.

"My pulse spikes or stops, it blows. Five seconds of contact between my fingertips and it blows. I'm sorry, Buck. I really am. But if you want to save him, you're going with me, to Crossbones," Phil says solemnly.

Sitwell comes up beside the Soldier, weapon raised and trained on Coulson.

"Why?" Greta rasps. "_Why_?" Her rifle is still aloft, but her hands are shaking.

"Because it was this or everyone we care about dies! You, your kids, every last Claptrapper. And eventually he catches Buck anyway. _We can't beat him._ I won't sacrifice your life, everyone else's, everything we've built, to protect _two_ people. Not even if one of them is Steve."

As he looks at the older woman, Jasper takes a step forward. Coulson taps his pointer finger sensor against one low on his thumb almost where it meets his palm. Steve screams, body convulsing as the thing on his neck electrocutes him. Sitwell freezes and Phil separates the sensors.

"I didn't want to do that. There's no reason to make this worse than it already is. They're going to be here shortly with a truck. There's a cell on the back. You're going to get in it, Buck. Or Steve's going to suffer, very badly."

"Fuck... that," the blonde manages. "Kill him...kill..them all."

Phil taps the next highest sensor and the mechanic's screams are horrific, his body arcing back and going rigid. The Soldier can smell the flesh of his neck scorching.

"**Stop! Stop!**" Greta begs.

"Lower your guns!" Phil demands.

She and Jasper comply.

"How did he get to you?" Sitwell asks calmly.

Coulson sighs. "It's not that simple." 

"Then give us the full version. We've got nowhere to be," Greta muses.

"Fine, you want the how _I became a villain speech_? I'll give it to you. I got separated from everyone, on a run, eighteen months ago. There was a group of Xer soldiers. I overheard their leader's conversation with Crossbones on a long-range transponder. I...knew his voice. You'd know it too, Jasper. So would Hill, Fury."

"Nick's hunch is right then? Crossbones is ex-ops?" Sitwell queries.

Coulson nods. 

"Tell me who."

"Does it matter? That's not who...._what_ he is, anymore. His army is massive, slow to move, hard to supply. So he sends out scouting and raiding parties. Every one that got within a hundred miles of Claptrap never came back." He eyes Buck. "He wanted to redouble their efforts in the region, send more men...find the Soldier or whatever else was there. I killed them and I took the transponder. Then I lied to him, told him that we had twice the able bodies we do. He knows me as a straight shooter, honest. And Fury and I had already seen Buck on the monitors so it wasn't a stretch to say the Soldier was helping us - it made it easy to lie, believably."

"You're good at that," Greta snarks.

"I told him the Soldier opened the crate, helped us reconfigure the guns with some ex-ops weapons experts I name dropped, people I knew were dead, but he couldn't since I buried their bodies myself. Then I tore the transponder apart, made sure it wasn't traceable. I don't know why I put it back together, or kept it, but I did. I wasn't sure if I'd made the right move talking to him. It was spur of the moment, gut instinct. I never told Nick. Then after the Green Place raid...Crossbones reached out to me."

"Did he promise you something? Power? Position?" Jasper demands.

"He promised me the lives of my friends, the survival of the town I helped build from the ground up! That was more than enough. He had a spy at the Green Place, someone who snuck in to Claptrap under one of our trucks when we came back. She wandered the settlement pretending to be one of the refugees when she was questioned by residents. She...recorded footage, of the fight with the Burners, of Buck with Steve, and satlinked it to him with an old digcam. Nick's people caught her, kept it quiet. She swore she couldn't give Crossbones an exact location for Claptrap. But when he contacted me, he knew from her videos we didn't have the weapons. That Steve and Buck were...close. He demanded I help him catch the Soldier, and deliver Steve, or he'd bring his whole army to the region, overturn every rock until he found us. So I... sent them to the reavertown, to make a deal. They were supposed to trap Buck, grab Steve, leave the rest of us to finish off the cannibals. But the reavers had other ideas."

"Why does he need Buck so bad? The weapons are just as useless to him! What's his long game there?" Greta demands. "Or does he think Steve will take him to the other Soldiers too? Have Buck give him the words? Then he can arm his own private death squad."

"He says the other Soldiers are useless to him. They were reprogrammed after Zola was booted from the facility. There's no one left that knows the command sequences, how to reprogram their neural nets or install new hardware, and that includes Buck."

"And you believe him?" the older woman demands.

"That's why they went for Buck. He was separate, put on ice faster than the others at a smaller facility with no programmers. His codes weren't changed. Zola gave Crossbones Buck's words, in exchange for his life and helping him continue his research, but as you know, the neural net was damaged and the commands didn't work." 

"Zola _is_ alive," Buck all but gasps. "Steve believed that he saw him at the facility, when the one called Brock took him there, but I had hoped..." He trails off, looking at Steve; the blonde's eyes beg him to act.

"He made himself some experimental drug cocktail and it kept him going. You open the crate, you comply with Crossbones' orders, Steve lives."

"Crossbones does not really want the weapons, nor cares if I use them on his behalf. He wants the serums," the Soldier growls.

"Serums, as in Zola's last experiment?" Sitwell asks. "As in super soldier and _random mutation possibly leading to godlike abilities_ serums?"

"Yes," Buck grits.

"And why won't he just wipe Claptrap off the map after he has a caged Buck and his own semi-phenomenal, nearly cosmic powers?" Greta demands.

"He gave me his word. He won't go back on it," Phil insists. 

She laughs loud, mockingly, even bending forward and slapping a knee as she clutches her rifle with the other hand. It momentarily draws Coulson's full attention. Jasper's lips move even though it seems no sound is coming out. Buck makes every effort not to look at him or let his body language know he is listening.

"You don't know him. He's the worst kind of monster, but the junktown is a blip on his radar and he always honors his promises," Phil counters. "You're all still alive aren't you? And so are the others. That was part of our bargain. Non-lethal force only from his people. I hoped you liked my _oh so devious_ turning to the dark side story. Was it everything you hoped for? Does it let you hate me and paint me as the bad guy?"

"Let's say this all goes peachy and Clatprap is saved, you think you'll just waltz back in our gates?" Greta demands, taking a step forward, distracting him further after she notices Sitwell's pantomime from the corner of her eye.

"No," Phil almost whispers, eyes flicking away involuntarily, face melancholy. "I know I can't ever go back. But they'll be safe. It'll be worth it. And he promised...I can bring one person along. Just put the rifle down, Greta. Come with me. We have skills he can use!"

"I'm not interested in being _used_ again," the older woman says, levelling her weapon at him once more, getting his full attention.

He frowns, throat working, eyes shiny. Then he visibly steels himself. "Have it your way. For what it's worth, I did love -"

A single shot rings out, goes directly through his eye socket. Before the sound has even totally registered, a blur rushes past Greta, yanks Steve away, tears the thing from his neck, throws it high. It explodes seconds later in the air as a thin curl of smoke starts to waft from the barrel of the pistol in Jasper's hand. The Soldier has just finished urgently healing the blonde's major wounds as another wave of Xers box them in against the wrecked cars and little building, automatic weapons trained on them as they back up slowly.

A truck pulls up, massive metal box on the back. It is not just any cell. It is from the main facility, marked with Buck's number. It is the place he was kept as his human teeth fell out, as his body mutated, as he lost his mind first to the thirst and then to the nightmares. His blood turns to ice as he presses the little mechanic behind him.


	70. To fight the horde, and sing and cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit looks bleak for the gang.

Greta and Jasper dive over the car, the older woman laughing to herself that she's right back where she started not so long ago with the blonde. Any mirth dies when she sneaks a glance under the vehicle and sees Phil's corpse. She's in some kind of shock, because her brain had already blurred out that Jasper had shot him, almost deleting the memory as soon as she had turned away from his body. 

The older woman has to look again and again, assure herself that this is not a hallucination or a nightmare. He's laying there just the same each time, puddle of blood under his head, right eye obviously missing and gaping wound in the back of his skull, visible even from this angle. Greta presses her back tight to the car, takes a deep breath. She forgets to let it out, clutching the rifle to her chest. She jumps when Sitwell grips her arm.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he half-yells over the din. "It was the safest option."

His voice even this loud is almost monotone, like usual, but there is something in his eyes that tells her he is sincere. Greta nods, swallows hard, checks her weapon and then gets her head back in the fight.

Buck grabbed Steve the second that the Xers started to advance, whirled and jumped up onto the low roof of the building behind them. Only the front of it is still whole, the rest collapsed in a dangerous twist of sharp metal and busted concrete that could not be seen from below with the front windows covered. The Soldier silently curses himself - if he had made the rounds of the town with the others instead of collapsing back into depressed sleep he would have known the state of the structure. 

He flattens himself quickly over the blonde to shield him from the barrage of gunfire that follows them, the lip of the roof too low to offer much cover. Buck can tell from how spongy the roof feels that if he attempts to get to his feet and push hard enough to jump off the other side - especially with the added weight of the mechanic - it will collapse beneath them.

Steve can feel the bigger man vibrating lightly from the impact of multiple rounds. After a few seconds, hot liquid leaks down onto his neck and the exposed sliver of back where his shirt and jacket are pulled up. He knows the Soldier's wounds close quickly, but he still feels pain. More importantly he loses blood from each of them - there will come a point where Buck's body can't give any more without the need taking over.

"We have to get down inside," Steve informs him, "into cover."

"It is unstable, unsafe. You could be badly injured," Buck grits out.

"If you don't do it, you'll eventually turn feral and kill me!"

It's probably a tad over-dramatic, but it convinces the Soldier. He lifts himself up just enough that he can drag Steve along beneath him, every bit of the back of Buck's body being shredded with gunfire as he crawls. When they are next to the gaping edge of the collapsed section, he grips the blonde's wrist and whips his body from below him and around into the hole in a quick, effortless gesture. Dangling him precariously, Buck looks down into the dark of the building, seeing what no human could.

The Soldier swings the smaller man a bit to the left to avoid a dangerous heap of debris directly below him, and lets go. He rolls in haphazardly after, impaling himself on several things, but quickly pulls himself free. All his wounds are healed in seconds but his clothes hang in shreds save the vest. Steve is crouched, avoiding the gunfire that now rips through the plywood over the smashed front windows. Buck starts digging wildly through the debris, looking for a back door.

Greta can't fit under the car like Steve could, but she lays on her side and shoots a few ankles from beneath it. Her visibility is significantly less good without being able to push the trash in the front aside, as the blonde had been able to do crawling so far in, but it's something. A few more enemy downed at least. Sitwell pops around the front of the hood and gets a good head shot before drawing quickly back in.

"I make thirty-two. You?" he queries.

Greta breaks the mirror off the side door, holds it up quick, angling it so she can see her attackers and pulls it swiftly back down. She changes her hold on the rifle, so that it's pointing over the hood of the car into an area where a few of them are clustered, and pulls the trigger with her thumb. The older woman looks under the car and sees another body on the ground, gutshot.

"Soon to be thirty-one," she says, pulling the bolt to eject the casing.

The shooting stops, the attackers forming up thirty feet from the vehicle, calling for them to surrender. Under the car, Greta sees an Xer kick Phil's leg. She winces.

"This is our inside guy," the Xer woman says. "I'll let Crossbones know the stupid fucking junktownie got himself wasted. Guess we don't have to leave his friends alive at least. Shoot to kill authorized, except the blonde. You can riddle _the thing_ with bullets. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, Commander," another responds.

Greta jumps up, quick as lightning, and shoots the woman between the eyes. They all start firing as the older woman drops back down.

"Nicely done. The longer Crossbones thinks everything is under control here, the better," Sitwell says. "It's that much more time before he sends reinforcements. Smart to take the one out in charge as well."

"Sure, _that's why_ I did it," Greta says wryly, jettisoning the shell casing. 

"There's just one small problem. I'm empty," Sitwell says calmly.

"Me too." The survivalist slowly surveys her surroundings, ending the pivot of her head in the ex-ops' direction, looking at him thoughtfully for a long moment. "I suppose there's bigger douchebags than you to die with, Jasper."

It's the last compliment she'll ever give the man.

Buck does not manage to clear much of the ceiling rubble before what is left aloft threatens to cave in on them. He stops, considers smashing through a wall with his fist, but is afraid that the vibration of it will also bring the building down on them. There's no way to just grab Steve and run safely through the back wall with so much debris in the way and smashing out either of the sides means going right into the line of fire with the mechanic in his arms. The guns have gone off non-stop since they went up on the roof.

Steve gathers together several metal shelving units that are scattered about, untangling them from the mess, and forms a little barricade over to one side. He grabs the Soldier's wrist and urges him from his pensive consideration of the building, down behind the makeshift barrier.

"You will stay here, in safety. I will go out and finish them," Buck states flatly, preparing to rise.

"No!" The blonde's grip tightens. "You're running right into the line of fire of dozens of machine guns, and for all you know they have a flamethrower! Or explosives!" Steve puts his hands to the sides of the bigger man's face, smiles at him and chuckles. "You get yourself blown up and it'll bring the building down on my pretty blonde head."

"But -"

"You played hero enough already. Just stay with me a minute." Steve presses his forehead to Buck's. "Do you love me?"

"Of course," the brunette nearly whispers, warm breath ghosting over the mechanic's lips.

"Then promise me - no matter what happens - if they capture me, if they kill me...Promise me that you won't let them trap you," Steve says, soft but firm.

"Steve, I will not allow you to -"

"Buck! I can't live in a cage somewhere, even a nice one, even with you. Especially knowing that I helped give that monster power to hurt more people, to control you. I'd rather die right here than have to see you be his slave, or have him get the serums. Promise me! _If you love me,_ promise me."

The mechanic pulls back enough that he can look him deep in the eyes, show him how deathly serious he is.

"I...I...I love you. I promise," the Soldier rasps, eyes wet.

Steve kisses him like it will be the last time.

The shooting outside goes silent. The blonde sneaks from behind their hiding place, peeks through a bullet hole in the plywood as Buck whispers urgently for him to come back. Greta and Jasper are sitting behind the car, facing the front of the building and he can vaguely hear the Xers talking. He sees the older woman pop up, fire, sink down and give Sitwell a grin as the shooting starts again. Steve presses himself to the narrow column of brick between the front windows as bullets whiz around him in every direction through the boards. The Soldier moves to come get him, but the blonde waves him back.

"I'm fine! I'm fine! Keep your blood in your body," Steve insists. He thunks his head back against the wall, mumbles to himself, "Think of something, Rogers, if you're so goddamn clever, think of something." His eyes dart around the room, looking for anything that he can use to turn the tide.

Above the din, with the others in such close proximity to the damaged plywood, he hears Greta and Jasper tell each other that they are empty. Moments later his face, like Buck's, reveals that neither of them have come up with any good options. This is it. They're totally _fucked_.

He's about to beg Buck to just leap through the hole in the roof with him - twisted wreckage be damned, whatever they'll be landing in behind the building be damned, just get them the fuck out of there - even if it tears Steve apart. It burns a hole right through him to think about leaving Greta, but he cannot let them get the Soldier, and he knows the big man will not go without him. Suddenly, there's the absurdly loud rat-a-tat-tat of a much bigger weapon going off.

The way it shreds through the plywood, starting from the left hand side of the window, tips him off that he might not be so safe behind the brick. Steve slides down quick onto his ass on the floor, wildly gesturing for Buck to get low. Sure enough, the massive shells cut through the entire building all the way across making brick chunks fly. Some of them punch holes in the metal shelving in front of the Soldier, above his lowered head, and decimate the debris behind him.

It's suddenly eerily quiet outside, then Steve hears a familiar voice. Luis.

Further damage to the building, vibration through the structure up into the roof, starts to cause impending collapse. The Soldier runs forward, arcing himself over Steve protectively, pressing his hands against the brick wall as the facade starts to cave inwards in one giant sheet. Chunks of ceiling materials rain down on him, a piece of sharp rebar coming loose and going through his shoulder, angling through his body and coming out between his ribs. He growls, but his body never moves an inch.

Eventually almost the entire front end has collapsed on top of or around him. The blonde is curled up as small as possible - knees and folded arms to chest - in a little bubble of safety beneath Buck (who cannot help but think of Alicia in the fire pit, of the danger Crossbones poses to her and all the others). The brunette supports hundreds of pounds of debris on his back and what remains of the collapsing storefront with his arms. The window frames had twisted in, dumping all of the brick above them and only the column of wall that he supports remains semi-upright behind the mechanic.

"Buck? Steve?" he hears Greta call from outside as what is left of the building finally settles. "You boys alive in there?"

"Get away from the front of the building!" Buck calls back.

When she gives the all clear, he shoves what is left of the front wall forward and it smashes down on top of the car that Greta and Sitwell had been against moments before. They are both standing at a distance, minor bullet wounds but relatively unharmed, with Luis and an unknown woman. She's short, beautiful, wearing a gray hooded cloak, carrying what appears to be a type of Gatling gun. The newcomer watches Buck with awe as he plays Sampson.

"Go!" the Soldier orders Steve and he scrambles out to join the others.

Buck lurches forward at the same time he arcs his back and shoulders up, freeing himself from the tangle of debris. It collapses into the space he had been occupying with a loud crash, a cloud of dust billowing out the front of the building and covering him even more with remnants of plaster, brick and drywall. There are little pieces of lathe, glass and other things sticking out of him everywhere as well as the rebar.

The blonde cannot help but think about Jack, impaled with a thousand tiny objects. This time at least, his protector had survived. Without even thinking he goes to him, just starts pulling the shards out - it's the least he can do. The big man moves to stand protectively between him and the stranger.

"Uhhh so, Buck, this is Val," Luis offers. "Val, Buck."

"Winter Soldier 23. I am Valkyrie 6. It is an honor to finally meet you." She extends her hand, and it is clear she has cybernetic enhancements from the fine silver filaments running in various patterns through her light mocha skin.

The Soldier stares at her extended hand, immobile and silent. 

"We just saved you and your man's ass. Don't be rude," Luis says in a goodnatured tone.

Buck grunts, but shakes with her slowly, staring into her eyes. They're enhanced as well. He can see flicks of light in there and thinks of processors whirring, video being recorded, computations being ran. All manner of such things were eventually planned for his kind - making them more and more computer and less animal after the success of the neural net. He yanks the length of metal out of himself, never breaking eye contact, tosses it aside covered in his dark purple blood, and then pushes his split rib cage back into place. It heals quickly. 

"This is who you called?" the Soldier asks.

"You know me! Always making friends with government experiments." The green-eyed man gives him a shrug and a disarming grin. "It's a long story and -"

Buck leans down and hugs Luis impulsively, cutting him off. He is grateful that his oldest friend is safe, that he had not betrayed them, that together their actions had saved the little mechanic's life.

"Man, you look fucked up," Luis says, smiling warmly as he picks a chunk of plaster out of his hair. "What's even holding your clothes together? Let's look these fucks over and see if we can find someone around the same size."

The others come running around the corner, weapons up (they were just piled in the crow's nest, also padlocked from the outside) and ready for a fight. Phil apparently planned to leave them there to find a way out of the cargo box - they'd need their stuff when they did. They all slide to a halt, staring at the band of misfits, Steve and Buck particularly worse for wear. The woman with the massive gun surveys them one by one, then gestures to Hill.

"Is this the one?"

Luis nods.

The Valkyrie steps forward and slugs Maria in the jaw, knocking the tall brunette on her ass. "Do not touch him again!" she instructs, pointing a finger in Hill's face. 

Steve looks to Buck. "You two'll get along like gangbusters."


	71. Call me, on the line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few people learn lessons in compromise and cooperation.

Everyone gets to work at various tasks, experts in picking over the losers of a conflict. The gang couldn't figure out how the archer, white as a sheet, was still standing let alone ready to fire an arrow when he'd come with the others to Steve's aid. Buck carries him back to the truck despite his weak protests, the Valkyrie following. Luis is there, loading up supplies scavenged from one of the Xers trucks. The superhumans are in agreement that Clint needs a blood transfusion and they both look to Luis expectantly.

"What?" the young man barks.

"You are a universal donor," the super soldiers say in unison.

"Isn't there someone else?" He crosses his arms and squints his eyes in annoyance, flicking them briefly to Clint then back. "I have better things to do."

"No," they answer at the same time. 

"I can tell their blood types from their scents," Buck states to the Valkyrie.

"I took samples," Val replies, popping an incredibly thin needle from one finger. "They did not notice."

Luis sighs hard, suddenly less pleased at how well they're getting along. He eyes the bleached-out archer where he sits at the end of the cargo box. Clint looks utterly pitiful, two minutes away from slumping over. 

"Fine! Fine!" Luis rolls up his sleeve with a huff and offers his arm. 

After the Valkyrie has the apparatus in place for the transfusion, she joins Buck to collect the corpses and drag them to a central location for looting. She, like the Soldier, is incredibly strong. Luis watches her just to have somewhere to look that isn't at Clint. When she moves elsewhere he studies the treeline like it's immensely fascinating.

"I said it was Jasper," the archer finally offers. 

The younger man says nothing, just scowls and looks at the mostly empty branches moving in the breeze.

"Everything happened so fast," Clint continues. "I couldn't stop Hill."

The green eyes roll. 

"It's not like _I_ hit you," the taller man insists.

Luis' head whips towards him and his face is even more furious than it was on the basketball court. 

"I saw the way you looked at me! You _believed her_! You at least thought it was possible. I get we haven't known each other long, but after everything that happened with us, how completely _disgustingly_ vulnerable I was with you! That's what you think I'm capable of? Betraying my oldest friend? Getting you and the others killed? And now I'm literally sharing blood with you, like I haven't given you enough of myself already." 

The younger man looks away, brows furrowed hard, jaw clenched. 

"It made more sense than..." Clint trails off, takes a few breaths. "It made more sense than that you...I get why you're friends with Buck. And I get why you like Win, but I don't get why you..." He stops again, embarrassed, barely enough vitality in him to blush. 

"And you think I get it? I never even for a second thought about a guy like that before." Luis turns to stare daggers into the archer. 

"I don't mean...because I'm a guy. Just...in general. I don't...have a lot going on for me." 

"You have a _fucking wife_. You have friends. Ride or die friends. What do you think they see in you?" 

"I have no idea," he says quietly. 

Hill, up in the nest on watch with the drone, rolls her eyes listening to them. 

Luis slaps Clint upside the head, hard and quick. He'd learned a few things from Win.

"Ow! The fuck was that for?" the archer whines.

"Being so goddamned stupid. And getting yourself shot," the younger man gripes. 

Luis reaches over, careful not to disturb the tubing sticking out of Clint's left arm and his right, and puts his hand gently on the older man's as he goes back to staring at the trees. After a surprised moment, the archer carefully entwines their fingers and the younger man doesn't pull his away. 

Win and Nat round up weapons. They're going to have literal boxes full of guns, knives and ammo to take with them, even a crossbow. The redhead reclaims her wrist cuffs from Phil and pulls off the other device he'd been wearing. There's an unactivated disc in the storage unit on the back, another tiny torture device which could be turned to a mini bomb at a moment's notice. She pockets it. 

"That took balls, Coulson. I just wish you'd grown them back when Crossbones threatened Claptrap instead."

She stares down at him, rolls her eyes at her own sentimentality, then closes his remaining lid with a well-manicured finger. 

Steve busies himself searching bodies - he notices that most of the corpses, in addition to the eponymous white X across their chests, bare one white stripe on their left shoulder. Several have two stripes and a single person - the woman Greta had sniped after she kicked Phil - has three. He comments on it to her and Jasper. They're guarding the prisoners, lined up on their knees with hands tied behind them. There were a dozen wounded and it was decided they could be useful for information.

"Are they a....rank?" Steve suggests to Sitwell, back in possession of his high-tech rifle after some hesitation (and another heated warning) from Buck. 

"Makes sense," Greta offers. She gestures to the one with three stripes. "They called her commander."

The bespectacled man comes over to join the mechanic.

"If Crossbones is ex-ops," Sitwell muses, strapping his rifle across his back and leaning to pat down the corpse of the Xers leader, "then he would understand the value of hierarchy in running such a large force and as a tool for reward. And since equipment is scarce these days, he would only give long-range communicators to a privileged few. Voila!"

He shows a transponder, virtually identical to the broken one they had pulled from Phil's back pocket. The other Xers have walkies, of various ages and levels of quality, none of them good for much range. Some of them are even kids' toy versions. One particularly scary woman, covered in hand-done tattoos and wearing bones as ornamentation, has a pink princess one. 

"Now we just need to convince a two-stripe to make a scripted call, since one of them would take over if she was killed," Sitwell reasons. "Any of them strike you as looking particularly cooperative?" He smirks at the blonde - other than a girl barely out of her teens, they're a pretty rough bunch. 

There's something different in the way that Jasper looks at Steve, something more...open, but hard to define. The mechanic decides he'll leave considering that for another day. Right now, he's just grateful to the other man for his actions - retrieving Buck, coming to his aid. Even though he was upset that things had to end with Phil the way they did, he couldn't fault Sitwell for taking the shot and the ex-ops' quick, almost silent instructions to Buck had saved the blonde from getting his head literally blown off.

Steve runs his eyes down the line of prisoners, looking at their shoulder markings. There's only two of the two-stripes left, appropriately, and the blonde is quite familiar with one of their visages.

"Vullo, you finally went from a number one to the _number two_ I always knew you were." Steve slaps the side of his face twice, hard and fast, mimicking what the bigger man had done to him earlier.

"You're lucky that fucking junktownie trader had a soft spot for you, or I would have been all up in there, sweetie pie." Vullo makes a kissy face at him, exaggerating the smooching noises.

"You'll have to get in line. I'm very popular these days," the blonde offers, grinning, not letting the other man see how hearing Brock's old knickname for Steve had affected him.

The mechanic turns and waves to Buck as he hauls in several more corpses. Vullo only lets a hint of fear cross his features before setting them back into something cocky as the Soldier comes over to stand beside Steve. The mechanic gestures to the Xer on his knees.

"Vullo, this is my boyfriend, Buck. Buck, this is some of Brock's former dreg trash, Vullo. Vullo is a sadistic, rapist pig. Vullo needs to learn a lesson about playing well with others." 

Steve yanks down the front of his shirt collar, highlighting the hand print over his windpipe, making it clear who the culprit was; he had insisted earlier that his less serious injuries could be left until later. The brunette grabs the Xer by his throat, hoists him effortlessly up off the ground and lifts him as high as he can reach as he kicks uselessly.

"Buck and I are going to go for a little walk, folks," the blonde says, "make a phone call." 

He reaches with his hand out flat to Jasper. After a few seconds the other man - looking a bit wary - gives him the transponder.

Steve leads them to the only house that is mostly still standing, and Buck lowers the man enough to walk through the entranceway with him. He's redfaced now, almost unconscious. The blonde pats Buck's arm and he drops Vullo abruptly on the ceramic tile floor of the kitchen.

"Fucking..." The Xer coughs, gags, wheezes, "faggot."

"Faggot? This is a slur for a homosexual, correct?" the Soldier asks the mechanic, who nods in response.

"Steve is not a homosexual." Buck turns his eyes up to the ceiling, contemplating. "_I_ am a homosexual." They flick back to the blonde's. "Should I be offended by this terminology?"

"Words only have the power that you give them," Steve replies. "I'd argue not a goddamn thing out of his useless mouth so far should matter to you at all. Actions speak louder than words, after all."

The mechanic pulls up his shirt, shows the almost-boot-print-shaped bruise there, already black over his fractured rib. The Soldier grimaces, kicks Vullo in the same spot.

"Coward..." the Xer spits at the blonde. "Needing to use... your fucking... trained guerilla...to beat on me."

"I could beat on you fine, I just don't want to have to _touch you_ ever again." Steve turns to Buck. "I'm not sure he's learned his lesson. He's a little hard headed." 

The blonde turns around, showing the blood matted in his hair, another remnant of Vullo's treatment (though the Soldier had insisted on healing the wide scalp wound earlier).

Buck grabs the top of the man's short curls and slams his head, already injured from Phil, twice off the cabinet behind him, leaving a blood splat there.

"I won't...I won't radio Crossbones. No matter...what your toy soldier does. And if I did, I'd tell him exactly...what you've fucking done," the two-stripe manages. "You wouldn't be ten miles away...and he'd have a swarm of shock troops here to hunt you down."

"Oh! This isn't the coercion phase. This is just me having a good time." Steve shrugs. "I guess your old boss must have rubbed off on me. Get it? _He rubbed off_ on me?"

Vullo just scowls and Buck is silent.

"Man, Clint would have really appreciated that. Well, if it weren't so rapey, I guess. Speaking of rapey..." Steve rolls his eyes in a dramatic circle, "if we're going tit for tat, maybe I should have Buck take your pants off next. You know, he _is_ fully functional and anatomically correct."

There's a glimmer of fear on the two-stripe's face. Steve has a hard time enjoying it, given the words that had just come out of his own mouth. He won't ask the Soldier to actually pull the man's slacks off, not even to fuck with him. Whatever he's become since leaving Brooklyn, that's a line he can't cross, not even to play pretend.

Vullo's expression twists into a grin as he sees the uncomfortable look on Buck's face.

"Big boy didn't know what a piece of shit you secretly are, sweetie pie. Yeah, the fairy here is a manipulative asshole. He tricked a really good guy into falling for him and then convinced the poor sap it was in his interest to kill his own best friend and a bunch of their men. Got the poor bastard dead in the process."

"You are referring to Jack Rollins. I am very aware of what took place with him," Buck responds calmly.

"You don't know! You weren't there! You didn't see what he did, how he manipulated Jackie Boy...with his big blue eyes." Vullo flutters his lashes at the brunette. "He's just using you the same way, you know. What does he do for you? Suck your cock? Let you put it in his ass? Tell me, how loose is his hole? Is it like a hot dog down a hallway at this point? He was still like a vice when I had him, but that was a long time ago."

The Soldier's eyes glow bright blue, and he darts forward, grabbing the Xer by the throat again and pinning him, growl coming from low in his chest.

"I didn't...even get to...cum in him. Not like...Brock. He would...nut in him and then not...let him clean up. The ass of his pants...was always wet...or caked with dried jizz...where it leaked out of him." Vullo smirks. 

Steve's face twists and he swallows hard. The sound makes Buck turn the slightest bit, look at him over his shoulder. Vullo chuckles, or something very like a chuckle with his windpipe partially cut off. The Soldier turns back to him.

"You are attempting to goad me so that I will kill you quickly," Buck muses. "Steve, please step outside. I believe if I have a few moments alone with this..._man_, I can convince him to reach out to his leader on our behalf."

The brunette is trying to sound calm, but his voice is gravelly and there is a quiver of rage in it. His eyes are nearly white now, teeth fully extended. The mechanic thinks back to what Jasper had said, that Steve could never really be accepting of what Buck is, of his need for blood, of his killing. The blonde kneels behind him and slides his arms around the bigger man's waist, draping himself over the brunette's back.

"Do what you need to do, sweetheart," he whispers in Buck's ear. "I'm staying right here."

The Soldier turns his head slightly, enough that he can look at Steve's face from the corner of his eye. He sees no hint of doubt there, none of the disgust that part of him still always expects when he becomes like this in front of the blonde. Buck bends down abruptly, a hand tangling in the sandy curls to yank Vullo's head to the side, and drives his massive teeth into the other man's neck.

The Xer screams, flails and kicks. Buck puts his pulse into him in just the right way, not dulling his pain in the slightest, just paralyzing him. Luis had told him once that Buck's teeth in his neck, the sensation of being sucked from with no idea if he would stop, was horrible without the pulse enjoyment. The Soldier draws on Vullo hard, leaving gaps between each pull for the man to really feel it, to have it sink in that his life is being drained away.

Steve watches the man's eyes get bigger and bigger, his lips quivering as he frantically tries to speak but can't, his whole body shaking with the effort of trying to move but being unable to do so. The blonde thinks that this should feel wrong, just like having his lover - who was essentially a good person with enough on his conscience already - beat the man senseless for his amusement should have. But it serves Vullo right to suffer a small fraction of the pain he'd inflicted on others delivered back to him, to be immobilized and helpless after holding down so many.

The mechanic reminds himself Buck, despite his many regrets from his Winter Soldier days, has never shied away from killing - even brutally _slaughtering_ \- the deserving. Outside of Brock, Steve can think of no one right now more deserving than Vullo. He was a serial rapist who preferred teenagers, but would go after anyone he could easily best, regardless of gender or age. If there was no one on the road to use that day, he'd force other dregs if they were smaller, weaker, without allies. It had wounded Vullo's pride that the petite blonde - the pet, the bitch, the cum dumpster - had gotten the better of him that night. He was so used to just being given in to because it wasn't beneath him to seriously injure or kill those who resisted. 

No, Steve decides, he's not going to be upset that this feels...not good necessarily...but right. _Just._

The Soldier stops, sits up, leaves Vullo bleeding.

"Had a change of heart?" Steve asks, as the bug-eyed Xer hyperventilates - the two-stripe can't even look at Buck, expression filled with terror when the Soldier leans near.

"I'll do it! I'll do it! Please don't let him bite me again. Please, Steve!" 

It's the first time ever he's called the smaller man by his actual name and Vullo sounds frantic enough the blonde trusts he'll behave. Steve orders him to tell Crossbones his superior was killed, and Coulson, but their mission was successful - they have Steve and Buck is in the cell. They were going to help the wounded, change some shot-out tires, clean things up and they'd head back. After they go over it for the third time, the mechanic hands over the transponder.

A woman answers, informs Vullo "the man" is dealing with pressing concerns - they can hear bloodcurdling screams in the background at random intervals - but after he gives his speech she says she'll relay the message. The two-star performs beautifully over the com, but when they interrogate him further, he hesitates. Buck bites him again - then he's more cooperative. The one thing he won't give up is his leader's real name, but he spills most everything else about the size and location of his force and what his boss does and doesn't know about the Soldiers. When they've gotten all they can, as he pleads to be spared as so many had begged him, the blonde leans close to the Soldier's ear.

"You can drain him totally if you want. You can do it slow," he whispers sweet, with something hot bubbling just beneath the surface. "Really enjoy yourself. I like watching you when you do."

Buck is not sure if it is the little mechanic's tone - or the granting of permission, Steve's warmth and scent all around him - but he makes a broken, needy sound in response. He buries his teeth in the man again, sucks and sucks, emptying him without haste. The blonde's chin rests on his shoulder, and the Soldier is sure he is surveying the movement of his mouth, his throat, his expression as he drinks. The clever fingers run in soft, comforting whirls over his belly, sides and chest. In a way it is just as intimate, as loving, as any of the physical things they have shared. It is total acceptance of what he is, what he needs, of the pleasure he derives from it. 

"Does he taste good?" Steve whispers in his ear.

Buck groans softly in response. 

"Do I taste better?" 

That pulls a high whimper from the Soldier. 

"I wish you could have my neck next, have your pulse in me hard. I loved it so much last time. When we're back in the hotel, I want you to." 

Another helpless, needy sound comes from Buck, louder this time. 

When Buck finally finishes he leans back, eyes closed, lost in bliss. He runs his tongue over his lips and teeth without shame, lids fluttering open. Steve is watching his mouth hungrily. 

"Can you tell, if he had any bloodborn illness?" the mechanic whispers.

Buck looks confused, but nods. "He does not," he adds. 

Steve leans forward, shocking the Soldier when he kisses him deep, eases his tongue into his mouth despite the taste lingering there. He teases Buck's against his own and then lures it back between his lips just slightly before pulling away. 

The little mechanic whispers, "I know you can't bite me now, but you can use your mouth on me another way."

Buck's eyes, glowing blue and so round with surprise, look like two small flashlights in the dim.


	72. Nothing hurts like your mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve learn a few new things.

To say Buck looks shocked after what Steve has just requested is an understatement, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes. _Want._

"_What?_" the Soldier finally manages after a long silence.

The blonde leans close to his ear. "I want you to lick me and finger me and _fuck me._"

The mechanic contemplates that this should make him feel gross too, asking for those things with a body three feet away. The body of someone who had forced themselves on him, no matter how briefly, who had tried to do it again not long ago. But Steve realizes emotionally he's been carrying all two hundred pounds of Vullo on his back for years, bearing the weight of him for so long he forgot what it even felt like to not have it there until it was finally dumped off. He's energized, alive, a little more free from the past.

Buck had been so beautiful, tantalizing even, flushed and groaning as he fed. After the first time Steve had let the Soldier get him off, with his hands and teeth and pulse back in their bed, it was hard sometimes for him not to intertwine Buck's blood-pleasure with his own libido. He remembers the Soldier's sounds of enjoyment as he'd sucked at his thigh, stroking Steve's cock, how intense the orgasm had been. It's not safe to let the brunette drink from him now, even a little - they can't risk being feed-buzzed - but he needs to share some kind of pleasure with Buck. The look on the Soldier's face after he finished Vullo - the way his slick tongue had caressed his lips, chasing every last drop - had made heat pool between Steve's legs. He remembered very well all the things that mouth could do. 

"H-here? Now?" Buck questions after swallowing hard. 

Steve jerks his head towards the corner of the kitchen. "Why don't you take me in the pantry and then _**take me** in the pantry?_" He grins mischievously. 

The brunette tilts his head, listening. "The others _are_ still occupied interviewing prisoners and loading the truck," he says softly.

Steve radioes on his walkie, lets them know Vullo lied for them to his superior, taking the pressure off their need for a speedy exit. He says they plan to spend more time with him, but fail to mention the man is dead already. The blonde smiles and raises his eyebrows at Buck after he's ended the communication. 

The Soldier's eyes slowly shift to the open pantry, then back to the mechanic. Buck scoops him up and carries him in, slides the folding door shut. Steve takes out a glow stick - the kind once used for auto emergencies or cave navigation - from one of his many jacket pockets. He cracks it, illuminating the small space with light that's almost the blue he's so often seen Buck's eyes, and sets it on one of the shelves that lines the back wall. It's a small space, not much bigger than a coat closet, but it's virtually empty, cozy, private and relatively clean.

They stare at each other for a long moment and something seems to click in both their expressions - there's not a second to hesitate. Their bodies and mouths crash together, hands briefly everywhere before going to each other's pants, undoing them, sliding them half way to their knees in unison. Fingers move into their own mouths and then they're reaching down, around. They both suck in a breath as their wet fingertips graze each other's openings. It's short work to get two fingers in Buck - he's wet so fast. He makes sweet little breathy sounds as the blonde rubs quick circles around the edge of his prostate, teasing but not edging him towards release. Steve doesn't even need to touch the Soldier's cock; he's fully hard almost immediately. 

The Soldier has to be more careful entering Steve, just rubbing his entrance still, the little mechanic not getting slick there the way he does. 

"Do you still want me to lick you?" Buck all but groans.

Steve lets out a sound like he's tasting a decadent dessert and hooks his fingers to directly press the brunette's sensitive spot, making him let out a quivering exhale before the blonde pulls his hand away. The mechanic toes off his shoes and pushes his pants the rest of the way down. He bends over swiftly to get the tight jeans, one leg stiff with blood, totally off.

"How should I -" the blonde starts, standing there naked from the hip bones down, looking far less shy than the first time they'd done this.

He's cut off by Buck dropping down, lifting one of Steve's slender legs high, pushing his boney knee up beside his chest and nearly under his arm. The mechanic thanks whoever that he's flexible and almost chuckles at how _urgent_ the Soldier's movement was, but then the brunette buries his face between the slim, pale thighs. The mechanic's head thumps back against the wall and the sounds that come out of him are nothing like laughter. Every time they've done anything like this before has been slow and sweet, but right now they're both overwhelmed with want and in a rush. They replace patience and romance with enthusiasm and desire. 

The bigger man eats him out like he's a cereal bowl with a prize at the bottom. When Steve's sopping wet with Buck's saliva, moaning deliciously, the brunette eases a finger into him, then after a bit a second. The Soldier fucks him with his hand, putting occasional light pressure with his fingertips in just the right place, while his tongue moves around his rim. It eventually joins the digits inside on his sensitive spot, teasing it with the tip. It doesn't take long before Steve's chest is heaving, head spinning. He still wants - needs - more.

"Fuck me," the mechanic whimpers.

Buck pulls back, still gripping Steve's leg just above the back of his knee. He looks up with concern, hesitation.

"Please, Buck. I want to think about you inside me, not him. _Please._" 

The Soldier returns to his previous ministrations. For a few moments the blonde thinks his actions are intended as a silent _no_ in response to his request (albeit a pleasant one), the same way Steve had turned to pleasuring Buck other ways when he wasn't ready to fuck him. Then a third spit-soaked finger slides into the mechanic - the digits spread open rhythmically as they pump him, prepping him. Buck sits up, slick fingers still moving furtively inside the mechanic, and eases Steve's leg down onto his shoulder. He stands, lifting the smaller man like he's made of straw, hoisting him high as he moves his other leg over the opposite shoulder. The tall ceilings of the old house are a blessing as Steve comes dangerously close to hitting his head. 

Buck steps slightly away, tilting Steve's lower half out as he supports him with a hand under his tailbone. The blonde's shoulders are against the wall, calves resting against the bigger man's muscular back. The Soldier leans in to run his tongue over and in his hole again and again, fingers still thrusting and widening. When they move without the slightest resistance he pulls out and eases Steve's legs down to his waist one at a time, crosses his ankles behind Buck's back. The Soldier guides his cock to the blonde's slick opening and carefully presses into him. 

He watches the little mechanic's face intently, gauging his reaction, ensuring there is no pain. Even rushed he will not risk hurting him. Steve's face is the same as the first time he had entered him - eyes closing slightly, brows pulling in and angled up in the center, dark rose pink lips dropping half open as a breath bursts out of him. The Soldier knows how incredible the feeling is - that first slow slide of the smooth, thick hardness inside you, opening you, filling you. He loves that he can do this for Steve now, give him this unique pleasure, loves how much the blonde had wanted him to, hopes that this new memory will help fade the ones the little mechanic does not want.

When Buck is as far inside him as he can be like this, he leans forward, breathes into his ear. "You are so hot here, _so tight_. I cannot imagine anything would feel better on my cock." 

Steve almost chuckles at his boyfriend feeling the need to assure him after Vullo had insulted the integrity of his hole, but then Buck starts to move in and out and laughing is the farthest thing from his mind. This position is absolutely amazing. 

"Ooooh...oh!" is all the blonde can manage at first. "F-fuck that's good. Oh...ohhh.."

Buck eats up the little sounds Steve makes, literally - bending to press his mouth over the blonde's. When their lips separate after working together for a while, Steve has another request.

"I want the whole thing inside me," he all but whimpers. 

The Soldier steps back, taking the mechanic with him. One of Buck's hands moves to gently but firmly grip the back of the blonde's neck, the other arm sliding around his waist to support all of his weight. Buck doesn't slam the mechanic up and down on his cock as the smaller man briefly fears he will - he holds Steve in place in mid-air and rocks his hips, fucking up into him deep and steady, not letting his body bounce up, making him take more of it. 

"Fuck...Fuck...Fuck!" Steve exhales again and again, fingers digging into Buck's shoulders. "Fuck yes! Fill me!"

The Soldier bends his knees a bit, changes the angle slightly and it makes the blonde's eyes roll back in his head as all of Buck's cock finally enters him. The soft sounds of the bigger man's sac slapping the bottom of Steve's ass are just audible through their moans and heavy breathing. 

"Uhhhn!" comes out of the smaller man on each upward thrust, getting louder and more high pitched, Buck's shaft spreading him wide and rubbing his prostate. 

The Soldier groans loud in return, desperately trying to control himself. It is so good, too good, made that much better by how much the little mechanic loves it. He badly wants to bring him to release with just his cock, as the blonde had done for him more than once. The Soldier is certain if he just finds the right configuration of their bodies, type and pace of movement, he can accomplish that. It occurs to him that the person who knows best what Steve likes and needs is Steve. 

Buck takes a step back, presses his shoulders to the wall and slides down, still rolling his hips to fill the blonde. He eases Steve's feet from behind him and repositions his legs so that the mechanic is straddling him by the time the Soldier is sitting on the floor. His own legs are bent in the small space, not enough room to stretch them out. He's still supporting Steve's weight, and using his feet on the floor and back against the wall as leverage while he continues to thrust up into him. Buck slows his movements, puts a hand to the side of the little mechanic's face.

"I want you to ride me," he says, low and gravelly, remembering Steve's request at the hotel, the way Buck could chase his own pleasure moving on top with the blonde inside him. 

Steve nods vigorously. Buck stops the movement of his hips, let's his bottom rest on the ground. When he's certain Steve's weight is on his knees and he can control how deep and fast Buck enters him, he loosens the arm around him to stop supporting his petite body. The blonde is cautious, awkward at first, trying to find the right movement without hurting himself. Soon he has his hands pressing against Buck's chest and has found a good rhythm rising up and lowering down. When he gets more comfortable, confident, he starts to move faster, take him deeper. That pulls a series of moans from the brunette. 

Buck looks down to where they join, as Steve had done when he was the one inside, then reaches over to feel the blonde's hole stretching around him, as the blonde had done to himself when they were together in the dome. Watching - feeling - the little mechanic's body swallow his length is almost too much. He whimpers, desperate to fend off the orgasm that threatens. Steve notices, smirks, leans back, making the view even better. He repositions his hands on Buck's thighs behind him, his entire spine angling back from his hips. The blonde slides his legs one at a time to be up on his feet instead of his knees, allowing him to rock his body harder and faster on the Soldier's cock. The bigger man is bellowing now, both hands moving to push back Steve's jacket, shove up his shirt and pinch at his hard nipples. 

Just like that, Steve pops. The Soldier's eyes get big watching his load spray up and rain down in thick, white drops on the slender thighs, sandy pubic hair and flat lower abdomen. Maybe it is seeing the little mechanic find release untouched and knowing he is part of the cause, maybe it is because the blonde rides him even harder as he wails with pleasure, maybe it is because his hole tightens and flutters - whatever the reason, without even a second's warning, Buck cums. His body goes rigid - cock pulsing hard in the blonde, who is still moving on him - as he all but screams. 

Virtually the second his orgasm ends and Steve goes still, Buck is gripping his hips, lifting him and pulling out.

"I am sorry! I am sorry! I am sorry! I am so sorry!" the Soldier stammers again and again, thinking of Vullo's words about Brock finishing in Steve, leaving him an uncomfortable, embarrassing mess.

"It's okay, it's okay," Steve insists, moving back to his knees. He feels a little wave of revulsion at the hot liquid inside him, but he focuses on Buck and it passes. "I could see it snuck up on you."

"But you do not like that!" Buck insists frantically. "I should not have! I am sorry! I am sorry! Forgive me!" 

"It's alright, seriously." The blonde gives him a brilliant smile. "You can clean me up if it makes you feel better." 

The Soldier gets a look the mechanic is very familiar with, the _I have a plan_ expression. Buck lifts Steve up higher as he slides down to lay his head and back on the floor, his bent legs pushed up with his feet on the opposite wall. He moves the blonde forward, positions him to straddle his head, urges him down until Buck's lips press around his pucker.

The blonde lets out a shocked little "oh!"

The Soldier has extra musculature for the very purpose of sucking and he applies it to the task at hand. Steve can hear him slurping out and _swallowing_ his own load. The mechanic's about to insist this isn't necessary, his head spinning that something this pornographic is even happening to him, when Buck intensifies the suction. It stimulates the blonde's sensitive prostate and he lets out a high, breathy noise that doesn't go unnoticed. The bigger man moves his hands to Steve's cheeks and spreads them wide, getting a tighter seal over his open entrance. He sucks harder, rhythmic. 

In seconds the smaller man is pulsing inside, keening as he cums again. Well, it's not cumming exactly - his soft cock only leaks a small dribble of fluid onto Buck's cheek, while orgasm after orgasm washes over Steve, overlapping. The Soldier is milking his prostate with the hard pull of his mouth. The gland flutters and throbs as the blonde practically ruts against Buck's face, his hips jerking forward and back instinctually. The Soldier groans long and low, vibration spreading through his mouth, and that only makes it worse (better). 

"Ahhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!" the mechanic wails, only punctuated by sharp intakes of breath as he pulses inside over and over. 

When Buck slips his tongue in, rolls it around to get every last drop, Steve almost blacks out. Long minutes later, slumped back against Buck's raised knees, the blonde muses dreamily with his eyes closed:

"If you're going to do that after, you can finish in me whenever you want."


	73. M is for murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deals with the aftermath of the shoot out.

When Steve and Buck rejoin Jasper near the prisoners, the brunette dumps Vullo's body dramatically in front of them. The Soldier could overhear much of their interrogation from the house, and the others had not gotten very far with the remaining Xers. While the curly haired man had been very forthcoming, there was always a possibility that he was lying or leaving out important details. Buck makes sure to drop the corpse in such a way that the multiple bite wounds are visible to the others, and several of their eyes go wide staring at the perforated flesh.

Surveying the swath of the picked-over dead nearby, they see Greta dragging Phil. The brunette goes to her quickly, moves to assist.

"Leave it!" she barks, making him draw back.

"Please allow me to help you with him. I can excavate a grave in the woods," he offers softly.

"No. _Fuck that_." The older woman drops Coulson's corpse next to the other bodies. "He wanted to be one of them in life, he'll be one of them in death." 

She pats him down, as if he's just another stiff ripe for looting, but doesn't find much since Nat had already got to him. In his jacket pocket are two photos. They had found several reproductions of an ancient style of instant developing camera in the penthouse. They were all different bright colors and pre-loaded with film, probably intended to be used at a party. The gang had plenty of fun with them and there was a stack of photos in a box in the truck, and more than a few racey ones hidden in Nat's things. 

One of Phil's photos is of Greta - she's mid-laugh at something, the skin around her eyes crinkled, mouth wide. The second is Phil and her together, extremely high, arms around each other's waists. She looks at them for a long moment, then throws them on the ground. Steve, already headed her way, stops and exchanges a look with Buck. He can see the Soldier's heart breaking for her, the bigger man's face fallen, eyes sorrowful. The blonde stoops and retrieves the pictures, puts them in his coat pocket. 

"Take a little walk with me," the mechanic requests.

The older woman scowls, stares him down, but when he doesn't break eye contact after a long wait she finally sighs. "Stubborn as your ass is we'll be here all day if I don't." 

He heads back near the house with the now defiled pantry and she follows.

"Look, I'm not going to tell you how to feel about it, because I can't even imagine. But I think you should know, when Phil found me...The two-stripe we interrogated, he was trying to..." Steve bites his lip. "He had my pants down. Phil had to know that hitting him was going to piss off Crossbones, and he did it anyway. Knocked him out cold to stop him from..."

"Okay," she says curtly, a flash in her eyes that someone had hurt one of her kids, especially like that. "I'm glad Buck made it slow for that fuck."

"And you know Phil just locked the others in the truck. He could have killed them all and -" 

"You're going to fucking defend him, now? You of all people! He was going to **give you** to that piece of shit, your boyfriend too. To save his own skin."

"All I'm saying is, he wasn't a monster. Maybe he really thought he was protecting Claptrap, saving everyone by selling me out, Buck out. Shit, _himself out_. He was giving up everything. And you know we'd do that too. Maybe we don't trade in lives, not others lives, but we'd trade our own. We'd do whatever it took to protect the community. So I...I don't condone what he did or agree with his methods, but I forgive him." 

She huffs, rolls her eyes.

"I'm finally, finally getting some of the weight of the past off my shoulders," he continues, "and I don't want to put more there to replace it. And it's okay if you can't forgive him, if you never can. But if you leave him in the mud like that, with those scumbags, you _will_ regret it." 

The older woman walks away from him, back to Buck. "Fine. Go dig your hole and toss him in." 

The bigger man gives her a sad look, slowly reaches up and gently rests his hand on her shoulder. She offers him a little smile, eyes shiny for just a moment before she packs her emotions away and heads to the truck. Buck lays Phil to rest with a soft goodbye in the nicest spot that he had seen on his travels, surrounded by living trees, wishing to himself there was time to lay all those in the basement to rest. It had hurt him in an undefinable way to find so many, especially children. The headphones, with their tiny solar panels, had been laying near enough a window they had just kept charging with no one to listen. He had read a schematic for such a device in Steve's things and it only seemed right to put them on, to listen. 

Buck hums a few bars of the song over Phil's grave. He had liked the older man, liked how happy he made Greta. Coulson had always seemed fascinated by him rather than disgusted and despite his quiet demeanor, often had a friendly word for the Soldier and defended his positions to Nick. Buck, like Steve, cannot find it in himself to hate the man, even if he feels twisted inside by his actions.

The blonde is surveying the line of prisoners at a distance when his boyfriend returns to join him. Steve can't help but notice how the young woman keeps staring at Vullo's corpse. He knows that look - it's one he has worn before. 

"The youngest one," he says very softly to Buck, too low for the others to hear. "We should talk to her next."

She stands in stark contrast to the others, all obviously hardened killers ready to meet their end. Some of them, like the fume head in the gym locker at the reavertown, are ranting about the glory of their leader. Buck very much doubts that they will get anything out of the rest, even if he uses his abilities on them - they are not cowards like Vullo - which does make the girl the obvious choice to interrogate. The Soldier's expression sours; the prisoner is barely more than a child and he has just seen so many of them torn and rotting in the farm house. When he looks at the young woman he cannot help but see Luis, an innocent made to do less than innocent things for their own survival. There is something else there too, some familiar emotion that makes him feel intensely protective, as he had when he had found Silence and Alicia.

Buck crosses his arms, shakes his head firmly to Steve's request.

"Just bring her to the house. Then I'll handle it. Trust me." 

The Soldier grunts an irritated affirmative in response. He makes a big show of reaching down fast to grab the young woman's arm and hoists her up to her feet quickly. It looks rough, but he is being careful not to actually hurt her. It is still a good show for the others, regardless of what does or does not happen away from their view. He does smell fear on them - perhaps one will talk after all. He expects her to scream, to beg, but instead she lets him walk her a few feet forward with no resistance. As they pass Vullo's corpse she jerks hard in his grip, turning to spit on the dead man.

"At least you died first, you piece of shit!" she screams at the man, kicking him. 

Buck, shocked, pulls her away to where Steve is waiting. Then they are back in the kitchen where he had ended the rapist. He looks to the smaller man urgently, hoping that the blonde will see how much he does not want to let the girl be harmed, hoping that the little mechanic will not do anything that will tarnish the Soldier's image of him. 

"We just have a few questions," Steve says calmly.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," she says coldly, "but it isn't because I'm stupid enough to think that you'll let me live. I'd just like to go to my grave knowing that maybe those fucks will get what's coming to them. I never wanted any part of this. All I ask is that you make it quick." 

If the Soldier had not already drawn the comparison with the green eyed man, he definitely did after her words. That other undefinable thing is there too, pulling at something in the back of his mind. There is a memory there, one he cannot quite see.

"Just put a bullet in me. Don't tell _it_ to kill me," the young woman demands.

"Please do not call me it," Buck quietly requests.

She jumps. "_It talks._"

"Please do not call me -" 

"_You_ talk." 

"Did they not tell you I would be able to?" 

"They said... They said you were like a zombie. That you just did whatever you were told and didn't think for yourself." The young woman eyes his hand on her arm. "That you...ate people." 

"I am not a flesheater." He releases his hold and offers his hand abruptly, making her jump a bit. "I am Buck." 

"I'm...Monet. Monet St. Croix." She takes his hand, shakes it slowly, looking dazed. 

"Steve Rogers," the blonde adds, gesturing to himself.

"You named it-him?" she questions the mechanic. 

"Buck _is_ my name. From before I was like this," the Soldier states. 

"What do you mean, before? I thought they...made you." 

"That's a long story for another time," Steve responds. "So, I saw your little scene with Vullo back there."

"What about it?" she snaps. 

"I have a good feeling that we _know him_ in a similar way." He eyes her for a long time, watches realization dawn slowly over her expression (and from the corner of his eye he can see it spread over the bigger man's as well, anger following). "I did that to his face...after." 

"We are not going to hurt you," Buck adds. "We are not like him. Neither are our friends. I can assure you that he suffered a great deal for everything that he has done." 

Greta steps in, leans against the doorway, listening. "Her mag was full," she cuts in. "Girl didn't fire a single shot. We found her hiding." 

"So how did you fall in with Crossbones? Just needed a crew?" Steve asks, trying to sound as non-judgmental as possible. 

"I didn't have a choice. He took my whole family from our van on the road."

"Does he still have them?" Buck asks with obvious concern.

"He forced my brother and my father to fight for him. Burners killed them. _Allah grant them Jannah._ The rest of us he put to work. Mom had RA really bad, and one of them beat her because she was too slow. She...died. He gifted me to that scum as his wife and told me if I cooperated he'd give my little sisters to serve one of the women warlords instead of to their brothel. They're twins, fourteen years old. That's why I could have a gun, go on runs with him. They knew I would behave because they have the girls." 

"We will rescue them," the Soldier states emphatically.

"Woah, easy First Blood," the blonde snarks. "You met this person five minutes ago. Besides, you heard Vullo. Crossbones has almost a thousand people. He has his own little city. Strong defenses." 

"There's maybe _seven hundred people_ under his control. Only close to five hundred fighters, then probably a hundred people who do skilled work - medics, mechanics, scientists."

"Zola," Buck growls. 

Monet looks confused. 

"Little creepy guy, round glasses, about yay high." Steve holds a hand up level with his chest.

"Oh yeah, he picks through the new slaves. I heard he takes people for experimentation. They just call him The Doctor."

"Are the other hundred people all slaves?" the Soldier asks. 

"Yeah, mostly," she answers, putting her long dark hair up in a topknot.

"We must free them," he states, eyeing Steve.

The blonde looks at him, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, shakes his head slightly and then looks back to the young woman.

"He's sent out search parties, far from here. Does he have a lot of people out typically?" 

"Probably a third of his force at any given time - scavenging, robbing other settlements, out on expeditions looking for you, among other things. He'll call them back though, once he realizes you've escaped. He wants you both, bad." 

"That'll take time, before they regroup," Greta adds.

"Are you guys banging in here?" they hear from outside before Clint squeezes in past the older woman. He's still pale but looks significantly better between the transfusion and some drugs from the Valkyrie's bag.

"I am not banging on her. She is very cooperative," Buck insists.

"No, big guy. Banging means _doing it_. I thought you and Stevie were alone," the archer chuckles. "I know how you two get in kitchens."

"Oh. You mean engaging in sexual intercourse? We did that earlier," the Soldier replies. 

"You have sex with it?" Monet blurts out. "With _him_. You have sex with him?!"

"I am his boyfriend. We _bang_ often," Buck says, smiling a bit. 

"_Oh my God..._" Steve breathes, face turning pink.

"So...spill the details? Duration? Position?" Clint lightly elbows the taller man a few times.

"Approximately twenty three minutes in multiple positions," the Soldier states with a bit of pride.

"That's my cue to go," Greta quips, walking off. 

"What do you think Stevie's favorite was?" the archer queries, grinning. 

"I liked you better without enough blood," the blonde gripes. "Buck, make our friend have less blood!"

"Don't get your _pantries_ in a bunch, kid. I'm asking for research purposes," Clint says. "I sort of...have a boyfriend now."

"_That's getting ahead of yourself_," Steve mumbles. 

"It is difficult to quantify as he seemed to enjoy them all. He was particularly loud when I..." Buck trails off, eyeing the ceiling briefly. "What is the expression I have heard you use? _Wore him like a hockey mask?_"

The archer bursts into hysterical laughter. Buck smiles wider, pleased with himself as he always is when he is found humorous, even if he does not know why. The mechanic's face is scarlet. Their sort-of prisoner is just staring at the lot of them, gears turning.

"Vullo was in here with you before though... I'm not sure if it's more weird if he was alive or dead during," she says slowly, dark eyes narrowing. 

"He was deceased," the Soldier assures her.

'Well," Monet muses, "I guess a good way to celebrate killing a rapist pig is to have sex with someone you actually want to have sex with." She pauses, grins. "Is the cute one with the green eyes single?" 

"_Noooo_," Clint says with a little attitude. "Wait, why are you guys so chummy with this prisoner?" 

"Ohhh I ask about your _not actual boyfriend_ and now I'm _the prisoner_?" 

"Ewww. She reminds me of you, Stevie! Cocky and too smart for her own good. So we're like... leaving her tied up in here or...? Because they're going to shoot the others so we can take off. Wow, that all sounded way too casual. _Fucking apocalypse._ But anyway, time to go boys." 

"They will never believe she escaped on her own. They will know she cooperated. They will kill her," Buck states. "Please, Steve. May she join us?"

The Soldier gives the mechanic a look that melts him. He sighs hard.

"If you promise to stop talking about our sexual activities to Clint, then, yes, we'll take this _total stranger_ on our _top secret mission_. There's no way that could cause a problem." 

Buck, who does not get sarcasm, only smiles wide, kisses the blonde on the cheek and says, "Excellent."


	74. Cry, little sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck has several breakthroughs and the gang formulates a plan as tensions in the group shift.

While Steve shares their gleaned information with the others, Buck goes to drain several of the corpses. There are a wealth of options, and he chooses the ones wearing human trophies, those he is sure without a doubt deserved death. He has a renewed enjoyment in feeding, a new freedom from the heavy burden of internal conflict that the act had taken after he had started to realize there was a gray area between good and bad, after he had been made to feel like a freak and a monster by others. The way the little mechanic had watched him and encouraged him as he emptied Vullo earlier - accepted him in every way and been intimate with him after - had melted away much of the disgust he had started to accumulate towards himself. This is what he is, what he needs - there is no shame in the deserving becoming his sustenance, or in his enjoyment from drinking. 

He is pleased they are all still quite hot inside. One of them tastes very good, sweeter than the others. Buck cannot help but think of Steve - his taste, his scent, his warmth - and what he had offered (no, asked for) when they return to the hotel. Thinking of them like that together makes him groan and pull the body closer as he drinks. He forces his pulse in the corpse harder, imagining what it will be like to pump pleasure into the blonde, the helpless moans the little mechanic will make as it throbs through him. How incredible it will be, his teeth finally in Steve's soft neck, his petite body pressed close and completely yielding, the connection strengthening every type of bond he feels with the blonde already as they lose themselves in each other. The fantasy is so immersive, so realistic, and it makes the feed enjoyment intense, his sounds getting loud and overwhelmed. 

He knows when to pull away, a sort of internal measurement alarm he had developed through practice to stop before taking enough to seriously harm a living person. It had been hard at first, but it is a reflex now as much as any of his training from the facility. Even lost in this bliss, imagination drawing on his memories of drinking from Steve, he is able to pull his teeth out utilizing only a little will power. 

There is no way to quantify how much that eases his mind - even though he knows it will be far better with the blonde, he does not believe it will be beyond him to control himself. Certainly the need had screamed for him to empty Luis more than once and he had overcome it and the want, after he experienced the Cling, had never urged him to go too far with the green-eyed man. That voice sought comfort, and realized there were many ways to get it besides killing. No, nothing could make him hurt the little mechanic, not even a part of himself. He does not drain the body and sits for a while, lets the feelings of warmth and strength wash over him as he appreciates the silence of the need. 

_Silence._ What was it about her, about Alicia and Monet that so tugged at him? Buck had felt instantly responsible for each of their safety and he dwells on what may connect them. Each is female, far younger than him, with dark hair and eyes and various shades of what he had read was called an olive complexion (though after sampling the food with that name, seeing it was green or black or purple, the term had confused him). Perhaps there is someone in his past they resemble. For the first time in a long time, he lets himself dwell on the memory of the woman who says the name he believes is his. He closes his eyes, conjures her blurry face. He does not fight it as he usually does, lets the recollection slip into focus. She has dark hair, dark eyes, an _olive complexion_. 

"Buck," the woman says, trying to hold his attention, "Buck." 

But his eyes flit away. They are not alone in the room. There is a large man, pale like the parts of Steve that do not see the sun, reddish brown hair, gray eyes. He is yelling, throwing things. The Soldier feels fear, shudders, but he does not flee the memory nor had he fled from the man. His eyes are moving again - there is a young girl, pink floral dress, another, a bit older, blue sweater, a third, an orange band in her hair, this one older still. They all resemble the woman. The man grabs the woman by the arm, yells at her. The Soldier's perspective changes - he realizes he is standing now, looking down at the woman but still up at the man. He is tall, but not as tall as now - he feels his fists clench, rage boil up in him. In his bones he knows this man is deserving. 

"Buck," the woman says, focusing his vision on her. "Buck. Take your sisters upstairs. Now." 

The Soldier's eyes fly open. He was sure now the person he had fought so hard to blur out, to erase, the vision that haunted his sleep, was his mother. Suddenly he badly wants to find Steve. 

The gang decides the cage truck will be useful in transporting the Soldiers, and putting the prisoners inside the cell to take as food for them seems like a logical course of action. Greta had pointed out they couldn't afford to waste bullets, pulling her knife to slit their throats, before Luis had made the suggestion to bring them. He'd had no qualms about feeding the Xers at the reavertown to Buck and he wouldn't lose sleep over these ones meeting the same fate, especially after one of them put a bullet in Clint. The archer hadn't separated their hands when others came back to the truck, not even when Nat arrived, and it warmed something in the younger man. The redheaded woman's expression was notably blank as she asked her husband to retrieve Steve and the Soldier and remained to watch Luis and Clint part. Now they're all clustered together, and he keeps his distance from the older man, his wife standing unusually near, almost protectively. 

The Valkyrie's many capabilities were proving useful. Monet stated there was possibly a tracker in one of the Xers vehicles and the superhuman finds a device in the cage truck easily. When she is congratulated on her diagnostic talents, she informs them about her blood sampling. Val offers that she has tested them and they are free from communicable disease in a tone that says she believes it is a huge favor and not a violation of their autonomy she stuck them with a needle without their knowledge or permission. Nat, listening silently to the others complaints and Luis chastising his friend, finally orders them to shut up. She calmly asks if the testing covers STIs and HIV. Everyone goes quiet.

"Of course," the Valkyrie responds.

"No more condoms, folks, and all the unprotected oral sex we could ever want." 

The redhead makes a gesture like she's firing an old-West six shooter at Win, Luis and Clint. Only the welder laughs. Steve roles his eyes but grins, as it's more like her husband than Nat to do such a thing - it almost seems intentionally over the top. Apparently they planned to continue their group activities. Good for them - certainly he had enjoyed his with the pilots (until he didn't). 

"Do the lot of you ever think about anything else?" Hill huffs. 

"Uhhh, what about pregnancy?" Luis queries.

"No uteruses," Win states, like she's saying she ran out of cough drops, motioning between herself and Nat. 

"Is the plural uteri? But yeah, they took mine at the training facility," the redhead states bluntly. 

"Removed after I lost the baby," Win comments. "Complications."

"I'm....I'm....sorry...?" the green-eyed man offers with a slight lilt at the end, as if he's unsure whether the women felt it warranted an offering of sympathy - neither sounds particularly upset. 

Nat and Win both shrug and there's a long, awkward silence before Greta, Val, Steve and the remaining two ex-ops go back to discussing their plans. 

"Why do you...even have them then? You two weren't...seeing anyone else, right?" Luis queries Nat quietly.

"Easy clean up. Don't worry, Tiger. What I said before stands. _All of it._ No one else, and _no trying to replace me_." 

She narrows her eyes at him slightly, a minute change in expression he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't spent months living with Buck when he was still practically blank-faced, desparately watching for any sign a person was in there. The younger man gulps, suddenly remembering the look she'd had (or rather aggressively _not had_) when he and Clint were holding hands. She'd blanked out completely, her eyes flicking off inside like she'd powered down. Catching feelings may be off limits, something he had not originally realized. 

Ultimately Steve suggests attaching the tracker to the drone and sending it, at an average travel speed for a truck depending on the road conditions they see on the camera, towards Crossbones' city. Not only will the Xers believe that the vehicle is returning, but ultimately they can divert the device off course, send them on a bit of a wild goose chase to look for what they think is their missing vehicle (which in fact will be several hundred miles in the opposite direction, headed to the facility). When they've led them far enough away, they can jettison the tracker and send the drone to spy on the Xer city. Jasper thinks it's brilliant - Hill begrudgingly agrees it's clever, but is concerned they'll be without eyes on what's ahead. The Valkyrie assures she can handle it, and _something_ quick and silver comes from beneath her robe and flies off. 

Buck upon returning agrees with Luis' idea - the corpses will not stay fresh long enough to make the journey and maintain usefulness, but the living will. They will not even need to expend resources on them to keep them alive for a trip of only one to two days. His first lesson to his brethren will be sharing; the deserving do not share. The brunette knows from experience the others will remember every single thing they are shown or told while under the control of the neural net - short of undergoing brain damage as he had - and he will start teaching them to feed without wasting right away. He also feels anything that keeps Crossbones occupied rather than looking for him, and by proxy Steve, is a positive. 

However the Soldier, when asked to assist with the prisoners, is utterly unwilling to go near the cell. His eyes go big and change to nearly steel gray in color, his body trembling, as he gazes at it. The others look sympathetic, even Sitwell, and several of them ensure him they can handle it. Steve pulls Buck away to their own (momentarily devoid of people) truck, leaving Monet with Greta, and then urges him inside. He sits him down on the pile of comforters from the hotel they've been using to keep comfortable, tugging the bigger man's hand to get him to join.

"No one will ever put you in one of those again," the blonde assures him, putting his hands to the sides of Buck's face, easing him down to press their foreheads together. "We'll protect -"

"I made you a promise, when we were trapped in the building," Buck uncharacteristically interrupts. "Now you must make me one - that if they capture me, learn to control me, you will destroy me," Buck whispers.

"I don't think I..." Steve rasps, "I don't think I can kill you."

"Being under their control, having myself ripped away, is like being dead already. Please do not let me be used to hurt you, hurt the others, made a thing who slaughters the undeserving, _murders children_."

"We don't even know if you _can_ die!" 

"One of my kind has never been killed, but I believe it is possible. I can be burned up completely if the fire is hot enough." He strokes his metal arm reflexively. "I was...captured on a mission, trapped beneath an immense smelting pot. They did not understand what I was. They attempted to kill me in many ways. I was stabbed, shot, my throat slit. I recovered from each injury. One of them cut off my arm and threw it into a furnace in the metal production factory where we were located. Eventually it burned to nothing. They were prepared to remove another, laughing, saying they would cut me up and burn me piece by piece, but other Soldiers arrived and rescued me. I had the neural net at the time, felt no fear, and less pain than I would now. But the memory is very clear. It came to me quickly after I awoke from CryoSleep." 

A little shiver goes through him. Steve pulls him close. 

"I'm so sorry. That's why you're actually afraid of the fire? Not just how slow the burns heal?"

"Yes," Buck whispers, face against Steve's neck. "I saw my arm turn to ash and crumble." He slowly sits up, pulling the blonde's hands into his lap. 

"I also believe removing my head would work. The body cannot function without the mind, and eventually without a fresh blood supply my brain matter would deteriorate. It may take longer than for a human, but logically it makes sense."

"Well I'm not a dragon or a samurai," the mechanic gripes, pulling his hands free, brows furrowing.

"I also believe that destruction of enough of the brain would end me or at least render me immobile permanently. I do not believe that I could grow back a functional mind, in full working order, from only a small fragment of one portion of my brain. But I am unsure. That should be only in a worst case scenario. Beheading seems the easiest and most sure, followed by fire."

"Stop! Stop sounding so fucking calm and scientific about how I should _murder you_. I'm telling you, I couldn't do it. You'll have to ask one of the others."

"If you love me, you will promise me."

_Taste of your own medicine, Rogers._

"I didn't ask you to kill me! I just asked you to walk away from me. It's not the same!" Steve is angry now, face twisting. 

The Soldier gently takes his hand again, pulls it to the side of his face, rubs his cheek back and forth there and then softly kisses his palm. "I will be destroyed without you, as you would be without me. It is the same. Promise me." 

"Fuck," Steve sobs, eyes getting wet. He takes a deep breath, swallows hard, clears his throat. "I promise." 

They cling to each other until several members of their group return to the truck. Buck does not like the sound of Clint's breathing when he returns - the mild irregularity something the humans cannot hear - and gives him several injections of his blood to ensure that his lung is functioning properly. The Soldier presses his ear to the archer's chest, listening, until he is satisfied. Clint grins and pats Buck on the back, but when Luis and Win come to check in before heading to the cab the archer starts to look odd, quickly burrowing down into the large blanket he had been partially covered in. His flushed face doesn't go unnoticed by the green-eyed man.

They head out, Greta driving the cage truck, Jasper riding shotgun and Hill on the back next to the cell to have a second set of eyes on their surroundings. Sitwell leaves the drone in the town they abandoned to hover for several hours after they leave, making up for the repair and reload time Vullo had mentioned to his superior. Eventually he'll start piloting it towards the city. Monet sits with Buck and Steve in the back of the Claptrappers' truck. It was decided by the others that if she was not going to be literally next to them every second, she needed to be restrained. They were less than trusting after the situation with Phil and she was a total wild card. Neither of the men, spending so much time in restraints and so aware their future could contain them again, are willing to bind her. 

"Becca," Buck says, looking at the young woman. "My eldest sister's name was Becca."


	75. Everyone is just a little gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis and Clint deal with a problem.

They swap out a few hours later, Win barely able to keep her eyes on the road - Buck had healed her scalp wound, but she still had a splitting headache and was fairly tired. They weren't able to successfully camp, first the cannibals and then the Xers disturbing their peace, and now they're terrified to risk it. Steve and Buck get in the cab, Monet between them. It wasn't a tight squeeze with how slender she and the mechanic are and the bench seat in the front of the cargo truck is quite large. After her initial nerves she slowly morphs into a bubbly (albeit snarky) teenager, asking a million questions. The Soldier tries to keep his wits about him, to remember he does not know her intentions and should not reveal too much, but her questions to the couple are innocuous or - when she gets brave - sexual in nature, making the little mechanic turn pink. 

The Valkyrie is on the cell with her massive weapon, scanning the distance with her enhanced eyes, various sensory programs and her drone. The Xers tracker is on its way on Fury's drone, nearly to the point where it will divert. Hill has switched with Jasper and he, like Monet for the Soldier, has endless queries for the superhuman.  
Win and Nat had volunteered to go up in the crow's nest, despite the welder's exhaustion. It was obvious from the looks they shot each other, and the two men, that they planned to get up to shenanigans. They've no more than sealed the hatch, than the green-eyed man turns to the archer.

"Okay, so what's going on with you?" the younger man demands. "You haven't said two words since I came back here. You're blushing and twitching and hiding inside a blanket cocoon even though you're sweating. Are you freaking out about earlier? Because I'm pretty sure me _doing you_ was a lot more gay than us holding hands. It's okay if you are. I mean, you sort of owe me a freak out -" 

"Believe me when I tell you I have bigger things to worry about," the archer interrupts. "Much bigger."

"Oh no! I was right. Nat's pissed. She doesn't like that we like each other." 

"What?!" The archer makes an incredulous face. "This is the fulfillment of _multiple_ of her fantasies. A hot guy that wants to hook up with me and I'm into it, then bonus said guy's girlfriend just happens to be someone she's had a huge crush on for years and now she gets to fool around with her too. She's totally down that we like each other." 

"Liking each other and liking liking each other are two very different things, dude." 

"Oh, you _like_ like me," the archer teases. "That's how I know you're a little gay."

"Fuck you!" Luis shoots back but can't help grinning.

"Ohhhh. Don't say fuck," Clint whimpers, turning more red and panting a bit.

"You okay? Seriously. You've looked weird since you saw me before I got in the cab."

"After Buck shot me up with his blood I felt... funny. Then...when I saw you..." He exhales hard.

"Funny how?" The green-eyed man's brows furrow.

"Ummm..." Clint looks like he's struggling to find words, and after a long minute he sighs in resignation and pulls the comforter back, revealing his pants pushed to his thighs, his extremely full erection totally exposed. 

"Woooow!" Luis exclaims. "It looks...angry." 

"You're tellin' me. Anything like this ever happen to you after he healed you?" the archer asks, quickly replacing the blanket. 

"Uhh, _definitely_ not. I fell and ran a sharp piece of metal through my leg one time and he had to give me a lot. I definitely felt wound up, energized. Not horny though." 

"Maybe it's a hormone thing. He told me him and Steve _did it_ not very long before. Maybe he has crazy super testosterone in his blood stream! And then I saw you and bam."

"They were only alone when they took the guy in the house to inteeeerrogaaate...Oh. _Gross_." Luis grimaces. 

"His corpse wasn't _in the room with them_. They went in the pantry. That's, like, their thing."

"You're saying that like it makes it less weird. Iiiiit doesn't," the green eyed man quips. "They did do crazy stuff to Buck, so maybe he has hormones we don't even have." He adds, dramatically, "_Hormones not meant for mere mortals._ So, one look at me and monster erection, huh? That's how I know you're a little gay." Luis grins.

"It wasn't just one look," Clint says defensively, almost whiny. "That only gave me, like, a bit of a chub. Then I started thinking about us in the hotel, and then I couldn't _stop_ thinking about us in the hotel, and then for the last hour it's been like this. And now that you're sitting here in front of me, I feel like if I don't get off, I'm going to literally die. So, my suggestion to you is to go join your girlfriend and my wife upstairs. But definitely knock first because they're probably fucking." 

Luis looks at him for a long time until Clint finally croaks, "What? Don't judge me. You don't know how this feels!"

The green-eyed man gets a _throwing caution to the wind_ expression, even though there's an assassin on the roof who may kill him if he doesn't yell "no homo" and go back to his own side of the truck after. He slides a hand slowly inside the enclosure of the comforter, gently brushes the archer's hard on as he smiles softly. "Now I do."

The bigger man lets out a burst of air, looks like he's just been offered an insane amount of money to do something morally bankrupt. "You don't have to... I mean don't feel pressured to...I don't want you to think...that's all I want from you." 

"So you _don't_ want me to get you off?" Luis asks very seriously, loosely circling Clint's cock and starting to slowly pump him. 

"I... didn't say that. I just...ahhh...want you to know...I...ahhhhhh...think there could be more...between us...ahhh uhhh...than just sex and....mmmm...we don't have to...ohhh...hurry back into....ahhh ahhhhh....doing sexy stuff...uhhhh...just because we already fucked...God....ahhhhh!" 

"Unlike last time, I am a hundred percent with it right now, so I'm totally in charge of deciding to do this," Luis muses, pulling his hand away. "Are you sure it's okay _with you_? How out of it are you?" 

"I'm not feeling _high_ or anything. I'm just **wicked** turned on. I'm not sure if that counts as being in my right mind or not, since God knows I've done a lot of dumb shit when I was horny. But I sure as fuck want your hand on me again if you want it to be there." 

There's a brief silence. Clint's breathing hard already, lips hanging a bit open. Luis leans to press his own to them, pushes the blanket aside, gives the archer's cock a firm squeeze. It makes the older man jerk, head thumping back against the cargo box. The green-eyed man's grin grows wider and he chases the archer's mouth, moves their lips and then their tongues together as he goes back to sloppily stroking him. 

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Clint suddenly whines high against Luis' mouth.

The younger man can feel him pulsing, directs his cock up, contains the hot wetness with his hand as much as he can. 

"I haven't came that quick since I was thirteen! That's embarrassing. Pheewww...." Clint pants a bit, relief spreading over his face for a brief few moments before he frowns. "_Fuck._" 

"Don't worry about it. Extenuating circumstances. I'll grab you something to clean up with," Luis offers, inspecting the cum on his hand. 

"No, I....uhhh... I'm still..." The archer looks down at his swollen erection, no less full than before, glistening with his fresh release. "Damn. I felt better for, like, ninety seconds." 

Luis laughs and the older man covers himself with a huff, careful not to get the blanket in his mess.

"This isn't funny, dude! I took erectile dysfunction medication once, on a dare, and I was hard for like four hours. I almost had to go to the hospital. Do you know what they do to you? They have to stab your dick and suck the blood out." 

"Well, I'm sure Buck can help you with that," the younger man manages through his chuckling, only laughing harder at the look of horror on Clint's face. "Okay, okay," Luis manages to calm himself to a chortle. "We'll try less extreme measures first." 

The smaller man moves in front of him to pull the blanket aside. Just the light touch of his fingertips makes the older man whimper. His deep red cock stands up straight, slick all over, fluid still beaded on the tip, the thick vein on the underside throbbing. The green-eyed man strokes him slow for a bit before pulling away, making a face.

"I'm in reverse of how I do it to myself. It's hard to find the right angle."

"You don't have to. Really. I can just-" 

"Cállate," the smaller man cuts him off pleasantly enough. "Let's try something else." Luis leans back, weight on his shins, and makes a little circular gesture with his finger. "Turn around." 

Clint, already raised in an odd position on his knees before the blanket was moved, pushes the covers totally off and obliges. Luis puts an arm around his waist and pulls him back. The blanket under the archer on the smooth metal floor makes it easier to maneuver the bigger man's greater weight, slide his legs to either side of the smaller man's until they're almost flush together, the difference in their height minor though Clint is much more broad. Luis grips the hem of the archer's shirt with his dry hand, urges him to take it off. When it's tossed aside, the younger man wraps one arm across the archer's broad chest. 

"God, you've got a great body," the smaller man whispers in the archer's ear, hand moving to stroke his pecs and down his abs.

"That sounded a little gay," Clint jests.

Luis' other arm comes around low to grip his cock. He starts stroking Clint with his own cum, finding a comfortable movement almost immediately from this more familiar angle. Until today, he's never touched a cock that wasn't his own, not even Clint's. The bigger man moans helplessly. 

Luis makes a sound very like a short purr in his ear. "Así está mejor." 

"Fuck yeah it is," the bigger man breathes. 

The younger man chuckles. "Hablas Español?"

"Sí," Clint responds.

"You're full of surprises." Luis speeds up his hand, trying different techniques he's used on himself until he finds just the right one, sucking at different points on Clint's neck to discover the most sensitive spot. 

"Ohhhhhh!" the archer let's out, lifting his arm to wrap a big hand around the back of the other man's head, pull him closer. He tilts his lower half back, rubbing his bare ass against Luis' crotch. "I'd rather be full of you."

"Fuck," the younger man moans, starting to rut against him in time with Clint's movements. "You sound a little gay."

The archer groans repeatedly, rocking his hips to push back against the growing bulge in Luis' jeans and then forward to thrust into his slippery grip. 

"Fuck, you're a needy thing, papi." The green-eyed man laughs softly, grinds against him with more force as Clint obviously moans at the moniker. "Oh, you like that? Me calling you papi? Not too cliche for you?" 

"As long as it's not racist to admit I like it, then yes, I totally like it," the archer rasps.

"Why do you get me so fuckin' hot? There's not even the littlest feminine thing about you. Big muscles, hairy chest, bulldog face, _dick that's fatter than mine._" 

"That sounded a little gay. I just...ate my spinach...as a child. Made me grow up...big and strong. My thighs could crack a walnut."

"Yeah?" Luis asks. 

He slides the archer's pants down farther, then his own, not stopping the hand on Clint's cock. The younger man puts his legs to the outside of the bigger man's, uses spit to slick himself, slides his length along Clint's crack and balls, tightening his own thighs to push the bigger man's closer together. The archer is a wet mess there from his earlier orgasm as Luis starts to thrust. The older man moves his hands to his ass, spreads himself enough that the younger man's shaft rubs over his hole, then his left hand goes to the back of Luis' neck and his right to the smaller man's butt cheek to urge him forward harder.

"That was a little gay, papi," the green-eyed man whispers hot in his ear. 

"Put it in me!" Clint groans.

"You haven't...ahhhhh....had anything else yet. Ahhhhh...It'll hurt too much," the smaller man returns, not slowing his motion.

"I...I was...fingering myself, inside the blankets." 

"Chico malo. With everyone here?" 

"No, no. After you came back. I...I was so wound up. I had to have something. Please. Please fuck me. I need it." 

Luis stops his thrusting, puts one knee between Clint's thighs then the other, spreads his own legs to push the bigger man's apart wide. He eases a finger cautiously into Clint. The archer is a little wet there, and quite open - he easily puts in a second, then - with a bit more effort - a third. The smaller man thrusts into him, slow and experimental. He's only done this to women, never even himself; he'd never had to find a prostate before. Luis thinks back to college anatomy, turns his hand over to curl his fingers down, towards the front of Clint's body. That does it - the archer cries out and rocks wildly on his hand, getting a bit wetter there after a few minutes. 

"Please, please!" Clint whimpers. "If... If you want to. You don't have to. Fuck, I want you to. But I'll understand if you don't," he babbles. 

"Shhhh. I'll take care of you," Luis insists, pulling away to reach Nat's bag and get out the lube. 

He slicks himself and Clint's entrance generously and pushes himself carefully into the tight heat. 

"Fuck, papi, you feel even better bareback. I'm not gonna make it as long as last time. Dime que te gusta, que te ayudará."

"What I l-like... What w-would help me....me cum f-fastest is..." Clint stammers, goes quiet.

"You of all people are embarrassed?" Luis chuckles. "Dime que necesitas," he whispers, rocking his hips the littlest bit, trying to focus the pressure of his shaft on the sensitive spot he had found before. 

"Getting.... Getting...ch-choked." 

There's a moment of silence, Luis' motion stilling.

"I'm sorry!" Clint blurts out. "Th-that's too much to ask when we....only once and you...I... You don't have to -"

Luis shuts him up by sliding Clint's belt from his jeans. He loops it around the bigger man's neck, pushing the end with the holes through the buckle to pull it taught. "Good?" he asks, voice cocky in a _bet you didn't think I'd do that_ sort of way.

"T-tighter," Clint whispers and Luis obliges, wrapping his hand around the leather and the buckle after to keep it from loosening, using that grip to push the archer forward onto all fours, sliding back a bit to accommodate his hips. 

"Can you still talk?" the younger man questions, slapping his ass playfully. 

"Y-yes," Clint gulps.

"Good," he responds, draping himself over the bigger man's broad upper back. "If it's too much, tell me to stop," he whispers soft, voice suddenly filled with concern. "Don't let me hurt you or knock you out."

"I won't. Please, please fuck me," the archer pleads, pushing back, taking more of Luis and making the smaller man moan.

He sits up, hold still on the belt and other hand moving to grip the bigger man's hip tightly, and watches the impressive musculature in Clint's back and shoulders tense and bunch as he starts to fill him over and over. Sweat beads up between the archer's shoulder blades as he groans and pushes back in time with the younger man's movements. Luis fucks into him with more force, makes his broad body rock forward until the archer has to put a hand on the wall to keep from hitting his head, guttural breathy moans coming out of him.

"Damn, you take this cock like a champ for a straight boy," Luis jests. 

"You hit the spot in my ass really good for a straight boy," the archer manages. 

"Yeah? I fuck you good?" Luis tries to sound teasing, sexy, confident, but there's a tone in his voice that belies he wants and needs assurance he's pleasing the other man.

"So...so good. I don't...I don't cum very often...ahhhhh...without my....aaauhhhhh...cock touched. But I...ahhhhhhh! I...." 

"But you did last time, papi. You blew your load so hard on that big, sexy fucking chest without even a fingertip on it. I didn't even know what I was doing then. Just got lucky." 

"Nnnnnnnnnnn," Clint groans urgently pushing back harder, making Luis slam into him to the hilt. 

"Fuck, Clint, fuck! I can feel our balls slapping together. It's gonna make me cum in that tight ass, papi."

"I'm so close! I'm so close!" the archer whimpers.

Luis twists his grip on the belt, tightening it around Clint's neck until the other man's moans are just desparate rasps. He uses it and a hand tight on his shoulder to stop him from rocking forward so he can ram into him as deep as possible.

"Cum in me! Cum in me!" Clint manages before he spills again with a choked bellow.

Luis isn't sure if it's the archer's words or the bigger man's hole clamping down around him, but he goes over as well. He didn't think it was possible to fuck Clint harder but he does, pounding the orgasm out of him as he shoots into him. The sound of skin against skin fills the cargo box before being drown out by their desparate, broken noises.

"Fuuuuck," the smaller man breathes out shakily, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Clint's back. 

He releases the belt, pulls it loose to just drape around the bigger man's neck, listens to the archer's heart pounding and feels the rise and fall caused by his labored breathing.

"How the hell did I ever convince myself I didn't want to be with you again? Damn, that was amazing. I can't...wow...I can't believe... Whew!" 

Luis sits back, spreads Clint's cheeks with both hands and eases out of his still-tight hole. He's open and red after, but there's no sign of injury. There's a brief head-spinning wave of shock that he just had insanely kinky, satisfying sex with a _guy_, one he's only known a couple of weeks to boot. And in a moving cargo truck with the dude's wife and his own (sort of) girlfriend on the roof. He doesn't feel panic this time, like he had when he'd woken with the archer in the penthouse, realized what they'd done the night before. It still hits him like a slap to the face, leaving him dumbfounded to realize that it's his release slowly leaking out of Clint. He leans down to kiss softly along the bigger man's spine, down to his tailbone, over the pink handprint on his right ass cheek.

He notices the bigger man is trembling.

"Are you okay?" Luis asks softly as he stretches forward and removes the belt completely - it's red beneath, may bruise. 

Clint slowly nods, still breathing hard, eyes closed. 

"Did I hurt you?" the younger man asks with concern.

The archer shakes his head.

"I'm gonna clean you up...and out," he whispers, kissing Clint's temple. 

He finds a few fresh rags and a bottle of water, carefully wipes down Clint's sweaty back and forehead, then his finally-soft cock, sac and parineum. He switches to a new one, wets it, gently presses it over his hole, which makes the archer gasp and shake. Luis shushes him, rubs a hand up and down his back.

"Sit up and push," he instructs softly.

It takes a few seconds for Clint to realize what he's asking, but then he shakily rises, uses his interior muscles to force most of Luis' load out.

"Good, that's good," the green-eyed man offers softly. "Don't want you to be uncomfortable. Not like you're getting a shower for a while." 

He moistens another fresh cloth, slowly pushes it in him with a finger and moves it around, getting what's left. It makes Clint pant and whine as it rubs his prostate. 

"Shhhhh, I know, I know. You're so sensitive now. Almost done," Luis assures, easing it out then tenderly cleaning his pucker. 

"There you go," he whispers, putting the rag down and pulling up Clint's pants, doing them up, putting his belt back on. 

There's surprisingly little on the comforter - Luis blots it, repositions it so the damp patch won't be touching them and gets Clint settled on it. The bigger man is still breathing hard, looking dazed. After the younger man cleans himself up and tosses the rags in a trash bag they have for dirty laundry, he cleans both their hands with some sanitizer wipes and throws those in a small bag for garbage. He gets a bag of chips and a water and returns to sit in front of Clint.

"Here, you should eat a little something. Drink too." He smiles. "You did get shot this morning. Like a dumbass."

"So you've dommed before?" 

"Dommed? You mean, like...dominated? Wow, was I that good?" Luis laughs, makes Clint take a chip from his hand with his mouth.

"No," the archer says around his snack. "I mean, yes, you were... I meant...you're good at aftercare." 

"I don't know about all that, but the only useful thing that my father ever taught me was you always respect the person that you are having sex with. Even if you're never gonna see them again, even if you don't know their name, you treat them like they are your one and only. Make sure they feel good, satisfied, safe, always be sweet after. He said it's the least you can do when someone lets you inside them. And of course, I said, _eww, dad gross. Please don't talk about being inside people to me._ But he was right. You're always vulnerable with anything sexual or romantic, but even more so when you are literally opening yourself up to someone." 

"Oh," Clint responds, looking down. 

Luis puts a hand on his. "Either way, I wouldn't need some kind of freaky sex contract to take care of you." 

Clint leans in and kisses him slow, then hides his face against the younger man's neck, embarrassed at the well of emotion he feels. It's a rare and precious thing for someone to be sweet with him. Luis, despite his better judgment after Nat's behavior earlier, settles down next to the archer and pulls the big blanket around them. They share the snack and drink and then fall asleep against each other.


	76. Into the black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions mount as various motivations are questioned.

Clint wakes when Luis jostles against him. He cracks an eye to see his wife kicking the smaller man through the comforter. It's not a friendly tap; it's practically a full on shin splinter. 

"The fuck?" the green-eyed man groans, fuzzy from sleep, momentarily pressing tighter into the archer to escape the blow.

"Your turn for the cab," Nat says flatly, eyes glassy.

Once they've rotated out to allow the human drivers and look outs some shut eye, Clint - next up for watch - urges Nat back into the crow's nest with him. 

"What the fuck was that?" the archer demands. He boots the inside of the lookout several times, mimicking her earlier behavior. 

"What?" she says in perfectly feigned innocence. "I called his name and he was out cold. Win needs a second set of eyes with all the window shields."

Clint stares her down for a long minute. She's a flawless liar, but he knows her as well as anyone ever has. The archer admits to himself that it isn't very well, because he had thought better of her than to play mind games with him.

"You're full of shit. What's the deal, Nat? You're the one that pushed me to hook up with him in the first place and now you're being an asshole every time he does anything affectionate with me. _You_ pushed me to sleep with him at the hotel."

"You certainly didn't need much urging," she chuckles, playing it cool. "As I recall, you broached the subject first."

"Of us kissing, fooling around. You gave me permission every step of the way! _Then you were fucking me, whispering in my ear about how hot it would be if I did it with him! You planted the seed metaphorically for him to plant it literally._" He crosses his thick arms, covered now in a hoodie. 

"We were all feed drunk and I had a chance to see my husband star in a live gay porn. Sue me." She smiles, raises an eyebrow.

"Don't try that cute shit with me. I know when you're acting. Was it a test? To see if I'd do it? I would have never been with anyone else, woman, man or otherwise if you hadn't suggested it, seemed cool with it." 

The playfulness melts from the redhead's face. "Right, tell that to your ex wife." 

"How **dare** you!" Clint takes an angry step forward; Nat's expression and body position don't shift in the slightest. 

"So I kicked your fuck buddy a little too hard with my boot. It's nothing to clutch your pearls over, Barton," she offers, sounding bored.

"He's not my _fuck buddy_. I don't know what he is, but he isn't that, and that's the problem right? Was your whole speech at the paper factory, trying to act like you're cool with everything, just more games? How far will Clint take it if I let him?"

"No. Fuck each other all you want." Nat shrugs.

"Just don't actually care about him though, right? Because that's stepping over some invisible line I was supposed to psychically know existed. Jesus, Nat. It's okay for me to have his dick up my ass, but it's not okay for me to have any feelings for him?"

"No, you can be friends. Win and I are friends."

"More bullshit! You've had a thing for Win for years and I was always jealous, and I was jealous when you were with her in the hotel, _without asking by the way_, and you _told me_, not **asked me**, you were going to keep doing stuff with her at the factory. There wasn't even a discussion about how I felt. But I could see how into her you are so I swallowed feeling hurt and I tried to be happy for you, because I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that with someone else too and you could be happy for me. But you want to have your cake and eat her too. You're allowed to get close and I'm not. I have to share you but you don't have to share me, not really."

"It's not the same. I'm in control of my emotions," she offers calmly.

"And that means what exactly?" Clint scoffs.

"I've known Win for years and I can still separate liking to fuck her and flirt with her and spend time with her from _needing her_ and she can do the same. We can keep our wits intact. You can't do that. You're _immediately_ all cozy with this guy, making stupid lovey looks and holding hands and cuddling, after a _few days_ of even figuring out you're interested in him. You've only even known him a few weeks. You did the same shit with Steve. Not romantically or sexually, but you just glommed onto him immediately. You can't help yourself. You're like a dog, hopelessly devoted when anyone gives you the littlest bit of affection."

"Well I'm sure as fuck not going to get it from you, am I?"

"Jesus, don't sound so needy, Clint. It's a turn off. Or is that what sweet little Luis is into?"

"I'm fucking sorry!" The archer throws his hands up. "I'm so fucking sorry, Natasha, that I'm not a goddamn soulless roboperson!"

"I find that offensive!" the Valkyrie yells from her position atop the cell on the truck ahead of them.

They both turn to look at her in shock. They're going sixty miles an hour with heavy wind and truck noise loud enough that it's even difficult to hear each other in the nest. Clint's head whips back without barely missing a beat.

"If you thought I was so pathetic and couldn't separate my heart from my dick, why did you say it was okay for me to keep fucking him? Why not say the hotel was a fluke and call it off? Back to monogamy for both of us? Or even just saying at the factory, hey, you can fuck, but I'm not cool with an emotional attachment or a relationship between you two? Because that would be admitting you'd feel _jealousy_ if I started having feelings for him and make you a fucking hypocrite for having them for Win. You can't even **contemplate** saying you having actual feelings." 

"Don't be so melodramatic. I've..." The assassin uncharacteristically hesitates. "Said things. To you." 

"Oh, I'm sorry, there was what you said in the hotel, when we were all stoned. That I make you _feel_. What do I make you feel, Nat? Horny? Superior? In control? You think I'm weak and stupid because I rip my fucking heart out every day and let you stab it again and again and just take it, maybe even learned to get off on it. But that takes strength. You have no idea how much. That's what you needed, what Stevie needed for a long time too - someone to push around, to take out all the bad shit on so it didn't turn back on you. And I dealt with that. But I need things too. Things you can't or won't give. I need someone to just...be soft with me occasionally. Someone that I can just see how they feel without having to navigate through a hundred layers of bullshit. I didn't realize how much until recently." 

Clint looks sad now more than angry.

"And pretty boy is going to save your soul from the mean old witch? Give me a break. He's just a straight guy trying to get in good with someone he knows can protect him and keep him fed. That's it. He realized Win isn't as gullible or as good at killing people as you. End of story." 

Her voice is even, cold, but after all this time he hears the faint hint of anger underneath, of fear.

"I care about him and he cares about me," Clint says as softly as the noise will allow, brows drawing together, reaching to take her hand. "You know it and that's what scares you, that eventually you might not be the absolute center of my universe. You said one of your rules is I can't replace you and I thought it was a sort of joke, because it's so obvious that could never happen. You're irreplaceable. You're amazing and I love you. But you have to tell me, Nat. Tell me how you really feel, what you really want." 

The archer looks so genuine, open, desparate. The redhead's expression glimmers with something for a brief moment, but then goes blank.

"I _feel_ tired. I _want_ sleep." She pulls her hand away and climbs down through the hatch. 

Fury's drone, with the cage truck tracker attached, has been heading in the wrong direction for half a day when they near the facility hours later, its route sticking to black top to ensure any pursuers won't notice the absence of tracks that would be apparent on dirt roads. The gang park their vehicles miles away from their destination in the cover of several small knolls and the Valkyrie and the Soldier head in to check out the situation. They radio the others to advance - there is no one outside the obscured tunnel entrance leading to the facility and no recent sign anyone has been there. Greta and Win stay to man the trucks, just in case they get any surprise visitors.

Jasper continues his work with the drone in the cargo box. Monet and the ex-ops both got ankle restraints in the back of the truck for good measure when they were fifty miles out from the facility. Steve is unwilling to risk either of them knowing its location or interfering, given their dubious histories. He plans to keep them both separate from the Soldiers as well, unsure what they know, what agendas they may have. To his surprise they both submit with relative ease, especially Sitwell, who just sighs at Steve's apology and goes back to looking at the drone feed. 

Hill had been checking his progress regularly and they're sure he's done as asked. She'd disabled and encrypted the tablet's ability to record their current coordinates so that information is not stored or available to him and took possession of the code breaker he'd used on the penthouse door. The tablet features a homing single they can recall the drone with but it would take hours to use the feature to bring it back to his location. He already knew the region, but at least he would not have a firm idea of where the entrance was located.

Buck badly wants to take the girl, some nameless fear consuming him at the thought of her being out of his sight, but he keeps it to himself. He is aware of how impractical and possibly dangerous it could be to bring her along. Phil had been their friend, had known most of them for several years and Hill far longer, yet he had betrayed them. Certainly this meant anyone could. He reminds himself Monet is not Becca. She is a stranger and still a possible threat.

Per Luis, Maria had accused him of being a plant for Crossbones - the Soldier did not for a minute believe this given his connection with the green-eyed man, sure he would _feel_ his dishonesty, his ill intent when they were feed-bonded as sure as see any sign of it in daily life after living with him for so long. However it was not impossible Monet served this function. She could have been ordered to hide, not to fire her weapon, to spit at Vullo, to tell them every piece of information she provided in the event the Xers lost the battle. And she _offered_ so much information. 

The most startling thing she told them was that the hyper, ranting Xers they kept coming across were not in fact fumeheads or any other type of drug addict. They were _drinkers,_ and she did not mean of alcohol. Crossbones would choose his most devoted foot soldiers and give them some of his blood. Then he would bite them, do something to them that Buck assumes is probably pulse manipulation. After, they were changed, like he was inside their head, possessing their every thought. He became their God.

He didn't do it to people who were strategically important or capable of rising through the ranks. It made their behavior too erratic, sometimes illogical. But they were blindly loyal and berserkers in the field. She has no idea how long the state lasts or if it even has an end, but the idea had frightened Vullo. The Soldier has never fed his blood to anyone, has no idea what effect it would have. He is suddenly very grateful that he does not enjoy pain, that the little mechanic had not bitten him during their intimacy. It was clear now that Crossbones is something very like Buck, but is he another Soldier or some new creation of Zola's? Yet one more question added to the pile he has as they finally approach the facility entrance. 

He looks to Steve, hesitant. The little mechanic smiles, squeezes his arm. The Valkyrie offers to go first and they file down the ladder to the tall underground lobby area. The doors are sealed now, but Hill makes quick work of them with the code breaker and then they're inside, traveling through a labyrinth of offices and labs to a wide open room, walls lined with control panels and in the center sit two neat lines of twelve each, ten feet between the rows, of occupied (save one) cryotubes. 

Some of them are thawed and the fluid or ice in all of them is murky, nearly black. Inside, the Soldiers that are visible are decayed and lifeless.

"I am sorry, Buck," the Valkyrie offers. "I did what I had to."


	77. Ride of the Valkyrie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Val makes some unusual demands of Luis.

Luis had been living with Muriel and Alicia nearly a year when the young woman showed up at their settlement with a group of refugees. Val, as she called herself, was dressed oddly even in these strange times - wrapped in a hooded wool poncho-like cloak that went to her knees and hung to the top of her forearms, long leather gloves that stretch up beneath the outer garment and matching short boots, and what appeared to be a high-necked bodysuit, all shades of gray. She was just as filthy and blood-spattered as the rest though, quiet in a way so many are after having their homes taken from them. All that's visible of her light brown skin is her face from the brows down - she has full lips, sparkling dark eyes, a cute snub nose. The old woman wants to play matchmaker right away and offers her ward up to show the newcomer around. 

The green-eyed man wonders where any of the game he had when he was younger went as he stumbles over what little he manages to say. He's lost a good amount of his conversational skills after months on the road alone, weeks with those scumbags he'd briefly joined, then half a year with Mr. Run Off in the Middle of the Night Without a Word. There's something intimidating about the woman, even though she's all of 5'5". She watches him with a hawk-like intensity and barely says a word, adding to his sudden social anxiety. He's happy when the tour ends.

Luis had built himself a little room on the back of Muriel's shack a few months in, when it became clear the old woman - despite her cantankerousness and regular griping - really wanted him to stay. He's less than pleased when she offers to let Val sleep there without even consulting him and provides her a small pile of bedding. After nearly two weeks of extremely limited interaction, and awkward moments laying on opposite sides of the tiny room at night, things really take a weird turn. The young man wanders in to look for a wrench, forgetting for the dozenth time that his room is no longer just his own, and the woman is standing there naked from the waist up. Her bodysuit is unzipped and she's frozen in the process of pulling it up.

Val's skin has random threads and circles of silver embedded in it, like the lines on circuits. There are small discs on the insides of her arms and larger ones across the front of her chest, thicker strips of silver running below her collar bones to her sternum to form a large Y, a line running down from that to stop just below the place where her naval should be. Her skin looks human enough, the same shade as her face, pert nipples a bit darker. There's something that looks like a small set of metal wings on her back, not quite as broad as her rib cage. It appears to be attached to her somehow, perhaps fused to her spine.

Luis quickly puts his back to her, his face getting hot with embarrassment despite how fucking insane what he had just seen was - it had been a long time since he had been with anyone, even seen anyone topless (other than that one accidental time seeing Muriel, which she would never let him forget). 

"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have barged in. I forget this isn't just my place. I'm sorry." 

He hears the zip of her suit. "You may turn back around," she offers. 

When he does, she is covered to the chin in the front, but the suit is sleeveless and largely backless, the collar just looping around her neck. He has a full view of the metal work on the edges of her forehead, up and down her arms and across her hands. She watches him with interest, tilting her head ever so slightly to the side.

"What...are you?" he asks softly. 

"Not a what," she frowns. "A who."

And didn't that hit him like a punch to the gut, the sentiment behind it so very familiar. _Please do not call me it._ The memory fills him with a wordless sadness. He shakes it off - he doesn't let himself think about _him_ ever intentionally. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense. It's just..." Luis pauses, searches for the right words. "I've never seen a _person_ like you." 

A faint smile blooms at that, pushing up the pronounced apples of her cheeks. 

"Are you...synthetic? Like...an android?" he asks, trying his hardest not to sound freaked out as he settles into the small desk chair in the corner.

"I was grown in a scientific facility from a human zygote with genetic and biological enhancements." She sits on her folded up bedroll. "Does that disturb you?" Val questions.

"Not at all. They did a great job. You're very beautiful," he blurts out, face reddening again. "Sorry that's...Wow. Sorry."

She smiles and for once it seems reflected in her eyes.

"We were created to be beautiful, to infiltrate the personal lives of high-level targets. To pose as prostitutes, become mistresses, to gather intelligence and commit espionage. We were designed to be petite, non-threatening, physically appealing, submissive. I was called Six by my handlers." 

"You don't...exactly blend in, for that sort of work." 

The young man decides not to apologize for or in any way point out the activities she must have endured. He decides he's not in a position to make any sort of moral judgment on what she had to do, nor to assume that she felt any specific way about it. Still, it upsets him thinking about her being used as a tool. His mind is already caught up in the many similarities between her and his former roommate, someone he also felt intense pity for despite the current state of things.

"We were not visibly cybernetically altered then. Only our brains, vision and hearing, for recording, sending and receiving information. Before the collapse, we were put in storage, frozen. Many parties who worked in tandem with the government began to access secret information as the hierarchy of command disintegrated. A scientist, Dr. Hank Pym, learned of us. He had a daughter who perished in the plague and he saw us as something more than tools to please and manipulate men, as a means to honor her legacy as a warrior. With our permission, he enhanced us further, made us into weapons, protectors of humanity. He called us Valkyries. I became Valkyrie 6." She places a hand to her chest. "But he called me Brunhilde, after a woman in an old story. Hilde after a time." She has a soft smile as she says the last.

"Do you...like that name better? Hilde?" 

"I prefer Val now, to remember my fallen sisters. I am...the only Valkyrie left. He destroyed them."

"Pym?" Luis queries. 

"Crossbones," she whispers.

"I'm sorry." 

"I tried to protect the village, but I am only one warrior, and he had so many." She looks down at her lap. "The others lied for me so that I could gain access to this place, pass as strictly human. They are very kind people. Many communities would not accept me within them, were frightened or attempted to harm me." 

"I won't tell anyone," Luis offers softly.

"Thank you. You are...a good friend." She bows her head slightly, drawing her long, dark hair into a ponytail.

_Friend._ Not associate. He smiles, nods. 

Over the next few months, he spends a significant amount of time with the Valkyrie. She teaches him about many of her capabilities, including the winged structure on her back, which detaches and acts as a drone. It's visual signal relays back to her and can be displayed from a portal in her arm which projects images onto any light-colored, relatively smooth surface. Val also states she can see the images, as well as receive other information from the drone, in her mind. 

She shows him many things that she has taken from various computer banks or has recorded on her travels, even playing old movies that she has downloaded for them in their room at night. Most of the world is without power at this point from what Luis knows, but there are still many buildings with backup systems that run on solar or other forms of renewable or highly efficient energy sources. Much of the footage that she has is from security cameras from just these sort of systems, some from large buildings, some from people's homes, but she has a wealth of other collected data as well. 

The circuitry of her mind and body are very advanced, she explains, allowing her to compress and store an immense amount of data. Eventually he discovers that she has thousands of hours of music in her harddrives. He requests song after song, and when she is able to play one that he had often heard at his father's family events, he offers to teach her to dance. Technically speaking, she learns the steps easily, but there is something missing in her movements.

"You have to loosen up!" he laughs, pointing down to his swaying hips. "It's all about expressing pasíon."

She watches him with immense interest, copying him until she mimics him perfectly. 

"Sí, mami! Que bueno!" 

"Gracias," she returns. 

Luis had discovered some time before that she spoke hundreds of languages. And to think he had been impressed with the several dozen that He Who Shall Not Be Named knew. She moves in closer, dancing more sensually as she looks into his eyes. He takes her arms and wraps them carefully around his neck, gently resting his hands on her waist as they dance together.

"Man, I need to get me a robot brain so I can learn this fast. I sucked at this for years. Mi papá used to make so much fun of me and my two left feet." 

She pulls back, crosses her arms, the music ending. 

"Hey, sorry," he offers, hands up in a placating gesture.

"I am not a robot." 

"I didn't mean anything," he says apologetically. 

"I am a woman," she insists. 

"I know!" 

The Valkyrie unzips her bodysuit abruptly, pulls it down to her thighs, exposing her genitals, torso and breasts. He slaps his hands over his eyes. 

"Val! Yo comprendo! No necesitas hacer eso!" 

"I want you to see me," she says softly, her voice much closer.

Luis slightly cracks two fingers to peer between. She's only a few feet from him, totally undressed now. He pushes them back together to block his view. Her hands grip his, ease them down.

"I want you to see me as a woman," she whispers.

He swallows hard as she pulls his hands to her breasts. 

"Umm, Val, you...don't have to..." He trails off, face turning bright red. 

"I did many things in the past with men not of my own volition. A Valkyrie does nothing against her will," she says calmly.

She leans up, presses her lips to his, draws back enough to look into his eyes. 

"You are very attractive, Luis. I would like to have sexual relations with you. Are you amenable?" 

His mouth opens and closes several times but no sound comes out. Finally, he just nods. She grabs his shirt, whips him around, pushes him effortlessly onto his cot. Val has his clothes off seconds later, her lithe body straddling him, soft lips at his neck, hand moving to work his cock. Something slick spreads from her fingers over him. Luis groans as she works him expertly, trying to get his bearings enough to actually participate in what's happening. He used to be good at this, goddamnit. Luis tilts his neck, trying to meet her lips with his own. After a few seconds she gets the picture, pressing their mouths together. He uses every tip and trick he knows, kissing her with impressive skill and vigor. She tastes human enough and he suddenly wonders what her flavor is like other places. 

Luis pushes himself up to a sitting position, one hand moving to gently caress her breast, thumb rubbing at her nipple as the other slides low. He hesitates above her pubic bone and she rocks her hips up, pressing herself to his hand. Using two slightly curled fingers, pads pointing up, he lightly strokes up her labia again and again, teasing, starting from the outside and moving them closer together until they brush over her entrance. The wetness there is spread to her clit with each upward motion, the nub growing more full. She makes soft sounds of enjoyment, her hand working his length in time with his movements. 

Taking the hand from her chest, he uses it to position her legs to wrap around his waist, slides an arm around the middle of her back, half stands and then turns her, laying her carefully out sideways on the cot. Sliding down her body, her legs slowly unfurling, he teases her erect nipples with his lips and tongue as a finger gently eases into her. She's already so wet, probably doesn't need further encouragement, but he's always enjoyed pleasuring others as much or more as chasing his own satisfaction. He kisses along her body, discovering the silver filaments and discs are also sensitive. She particularly likes his tongue on the one that runs vertically over the center of her belly and he follows it down. 

Val gasps when his mouth finds her clit, licking and sucking softly at first as he searches for her G spot inside at the same time, carefully inserting another finger and thrusting, bending his digits forward and up. He tries out different techniques with his tongue until she's panting and pulling his hair. She sits half up and he opens his eyes to see her staring at him without a hint of shyness as he vigorously eats her pussy - there's something flickering in her pupils, little specks of bright green there. Luis wonders absently if he is becoming one of her movies, finds the idea is less offensive and more of a turn-on than he would have thought before. 

Val suddenly grips both of his shoulders, pushes him onto his back, climbs on top of him and directs him inside her. He moans as the Valkyrie arches back, lets out a sound that is somewhere between pleasure and relief, then starts to rock on him with purpose. Luis massages her perky tits with one hand, his other going between her legs to stimulate her even more. Her head whips forward. 

"Do not stop!" she demands, eyes intense, pupils dilated and glowing green.

All he can do is shake his head as she moves so fast on him she nearly blurs. Suddenly Val gasps high and long, her pussy tightening rhythmically around him as a hot gush of her release runs down his sac and between his cheeks. He's gasping, desparate to hang on, unsure if he should finish inside her. She lifts up off him, tilts her hips forward, reaching behind herself to stroke him with one hand while she rubs a slick, dainty finger over his soaked, tight hole. The Valkyrie gently but steadily presses into him as he groans - a mix of surprise, vague discomfort and pleasure - and presses her fingertip over his prostate. The little silver disc there as well as the ones in her knuckles and palms vibrate as she watches his expression with intense interest.

"F-f-f-fuck!" he manages, before cumming so hard everything whites out, his body spasming wildly beneath her.

Luis feels quite stupid when he finds out less than a week later that she has slept with plenty of people (of all genders) at this settlement and others. He had written some sort of _man teaches mistreated woman about the beauty of mutually fulfilling sex_ bullshit inside his head he realizes now is egotistic and condescending. She does not seem at all interested in a romantic relationship and continues her relations with others. Her demeanor towards him never changes, save her occasionally approaching him for sex. He declines, knowing himself well enough to realize he will become invested in a way that she won't if he continues with those activities. Still, he enjoys their time together and their friendship continues to grow. 

One day she insists on seeing the caves that are not far from the community and he leads her there. Once inside, he is pointing out some interesting natural structures when she projects an image ten feet high on the wall in front of him. Luis instantly recognizes it as the lobby of the apartment building where he'd lived with Winter. From the angle, it's from a security camera. The Soldier comes into view, Luis at his side. 

"That is you, yes?" the Valkyrie asks. 

"Do all Latino guys look the same to you?" he huffs. "No idea who that is."

She plays sound as well. 

"Luis, I am hungry," the Soldier says quietly. 

"Coincidence. Like every fifth Spanish speaker is named Luis," he snarks. 

His hand moves around cautiously to find his sidearm - it isn't there. She brings her other arm from under her cloak, reveals his pistol. It disappears back into the folds of her garment just as quickly.

"I had hoped by now you would know I am not a threat to you, but I was concerned that you would believe I intended you harm once I asked you."

"Asked me what, Val?" he demands.

"What is the nature of your relationship with that person?" she requests. 

"There wasn't a _relationship_. We watched each other's backs for a bit. We weren't close. We weren't friends. We barely spoke." He crosses his arms. 

The image splits, dozens of different boxes showing different recordings from the public areas of the apartment building. In every one of them, Luis is interacting with the Soldier. A laugh here, a smile there, a pat on the arm. In one they're sitting next to each other at a table in the cafe, having a meal - the smaller man steals a bite off the bigger man's plate and Luis can't help but notice Winter makes Facial Expression #3. It's like a punch to the gut. 

Luis just shrugs. "I'm a jovial fellow with weak social boundaries. It doesn't mean anything." 

The next montage, complete with sound, is multiple scenes of Winter biting him, drinking from him, holding him close as the smaller man moans loudly. There are other scenes interspersed - the Soldier laying him out on the sofa in the lobby, or in the lounge, after he's finished, sitting on the ground next to him, leaning his head back so that Luis can lightly stroke his hair. Despite himself, the young man blushes a bit. It's all embarrassingly intimate. He feels a hot stab of anger as well. Winter had shared all that with him, but just abandoned him without even a goodbye. 

"Meeting you was a coincidence, a happy one. Our friendship is very real and I would not jeopardize it if I did not have to. I want you to see that I know everything about your relationship with him. So that we can avoid a long, circular argument wherein you claim not to know him or not to know what he is. I need you to help me find this man."

The footage changes, her sisters at battle, being ruthlessly mowed down by a much larger force. A man becomes clear through the smoke, his build the same as that of the Xer's leader that Luis had seen during his time with them, but the man looks quite different. He is not gray, his skin smooth, his face handsome - it is still him, the same shape to some of his facial features, the dark hair much fuller but still obviously the same as the shocks that remained on the man's scarred head. 

"I need you to arrange an introduction so that he can assist me in killing the one they now call Crossbones."

"I don't know if a lie detector is mixed in with all your other gadgets, but believe me when I say I don't have the slightest fucking idea where he is, he doesn't contact me, and he never will." Luis can't disguise the hurt in his voice.

She nods.

"I was worried that this may be your answer. Unfortunately, that means I must leave this place and continue my pursuit of him. I had hoped that he would appear here, to see you, given the obvious intimacy of your previous relationship. I cannot provide you with a communication device, as mine are built in, however I will tell you a frequency on which to contact me if he arrives." 

"You can both go fuck yourselves," the green eyed man responds.


	78. This is the end, beautiful friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much is revealed.

"I don't...I don't understand. W-w-hat do you mean? What you had to do?" Luis addresses the Valkyrie, voice shaking. 

"I am sorry, my friend. If it is any consolation, I did this long before I met you," Val offers, looking genuinely remorseful.

The rest, including Buck, just stare at her. His eyes are rapidly shifting colors as he tries to piece together what is happening, the repercussions of its meaning.

"Why?" the Soldier whispers. 

"Because it was my father's final wish that the Valkyrie find this place and initiate Protocol Zero to keep the Soldiers from the hands of the truly evil." She raises her arm and one of the metal discs there dilates open, projects an image onto a blank wall. 

"Protocol Zero?" Steve questions.

"The first of his kind, Winter Soldier Zero, was created only to have testing done and then be executed, so that approval could be given to make the others. This was to ensure both the genetic and biological alterations were successful and also that the resulting creation could actually be destroyed. Zola was required to prove he could create a substance that would kill it. A chemical was finally developed after many trials that broke it down at a cellular level." 

A man, gray like Buck but a bit darker, is shown strapped to a table, a massive IV bag of black fluid attached to him. He flails and sputters, blood that is purple and then black coming from his mouth, eyes, ears and nose. His veins and organs seem to turn to mush inside him, his body collapsing in on itself - black blood and poison flowing freely from his opening body, even his pores - until he's just a squishy deformed sack vaguely resembling a person. 

"The Soldiers' tank clusters are each fused with multiple intravenous delivery systems, one for drugs used to stimulate them, one for the attaching of blood bags and a third attached to reservoirs of the fatal mixture, ready to be administered with the entrance of the Protocol Zero access code."

"You butchered them!" Luis screams. 

"I only thawed them enough for the pumps to force the chemical to circulate in them. They did not wake. They felt nothing," the Valkyrie insists.

Buck flies forward suddenly, grabs her by the throat, runs with her until they are out of the containment zone lines that mark the area where the Soldiers' portion of the complex begins, the section where a glass wall can be slid down to keep the Soldiers contained. He suddenly needs to have her outside of it, away from the glass coffins, to keep her as far from them as possible even though the damage is already done. The Soldier slams Val against a far wall next to the hallway they had entered from, hoists her high. She does not react, does not resist. Images continue to stream from her portal, several of the Soldiers silently collapsing inward, dying, their tanks turning inky with the toxin and their darkened blood as it leaks from them.

"But they deserved to _feel_ things! They deserved to wake! To live!" Buck screams into her face, eyes burning. 

"I was....given a mission....to protect....what was left....of humanity...." she chokes out, "from falling under...the rule of....a supreme leader....with an army of...immortal monsters that...could not be stopped." The image changes, the recording clearly still from her perspective. It's a middle-aged, bearded man - a doctor from the look of his white coat - teaching a class to a room with five other Valkyries. 

"Hank Pym," Nat says, drawing closer. "Famous scientist and humanitarian. He used to work with the biomedical division of ops, before he caught wind of some of their more unsavory activities. He was a good man."

"You do not know what they would have done truly awake!" Buck screams, ignoring the redhead. "You took all the choices they would ever make from them! You do not know what they would have become! The people they could have freed! Could have protected and saved! Could have loved!" 

"Before...the neural net...savage animals," Val manages.

Her images change, Soldiers attacking guards and doctors, feeding brutally on people. The footage is grainy, clearly old, recorded originally on tape. The scene flashes to Buck, or the thing he was, ripping apart what appears to have been a child. The Soldier's face twists, tears spill down his cheeks. He releases her, backs away, shaking his head. 

"I was not...I was not..." he stammers.

"Stop!" Steve yells at her, surging forward, putting his hand over the opening on her arm to block the projection. "Please, don't show him that."

"You were not in control then, your thirst and their conditioning ran you," she says pointedly to the Soldier, "but I could not know, when I was given my orders, that you were capable of learning self-control without the limiter chip. Capable of being a real person again. I only sought to save others from the suffering your kind could be used to inflict, the domination they could provide to the cruel, or the destruction you would wreak if untethered from the technology which controlled you." 

The Valkyrie's tone is sympathetic, remorseful. Luis is just staring, dumbfounded, mouth gaping open, glued to the same spot. Clint hangs back, puts a hand lightly on his arm. The younger man's eyes fill with tears and he turns away, embarrassed. He sees Maria at the console.

"Hill, what are you doing?" the green-eyed man queries.

Maria is flicking switches, pushing buttons. The control panel flares to life, pulling on whatever power source the lights and tanks are still running from. 

"We could still get information from this," she offers.

"I don't think that's a good idea. This place could be booby trapped or something. One wrong code and...boooom!!" Clint makes an explosion gesture with both hands.

"We don't need to worry about that," she smiles, plugging Jasper's codebreaker in to a port on the console. "This isn't a spy thriller, Barton. Calm down."

Behind them, Val resumes speaking, gently removing Steve's hand. 

"Our father, Dr. Pym, told us that several former government operatives had accessed information regarding the Winter Soldier project. They had tertiary involvement with the project, without their knowledge, but discovered it while stealing their own previously off limit files and all related information during the collapse. My sisters and I pursued and fought an army led by the ex-ops commando Brock Rumlow. Pym had told us he and the other former operatives in his army sought to find the Soldiers to use for their own ends. We succeeded in wiping out much of their forces, but the other Valkyries lost their lives. I alone escaped." 

The footage she had showed Luis so long ago flickers across the wall, Brock emerging from the smoke of a battle like a demon in a nightmare. Steve takes several stumbling steps backwards, bumping into Buck. Even in his distress, the Soldier feels a rush of emotions for the blonde - pity, empathy, affection, protectiveness. He carefully slides an arm around the trembling mechanic's narrow waist and gently pulls him to his side, eyes training back to Val. 

Luis and Clint watch Maria pull up data, including graphics depicting the chambers. She clicks several buttons, the images clearly showing that she has selected to unthaw them.

"Maybe there's still something we can do, to help the frozen ones," Hill says sympathetically.

"They mostly look pretty rotten," Clint responds, "some worse than others. It's way too late."

"Well, it can't hurt then. At least Buck will be able to bury them," she offers. 

The solid cryosolution inside their tanks quickly begins to liquify and their vital monitors come online, showing flatlines all around.

"Years later, I found this place," the Valkyrie continues. "I observed the one called Zola attempting to hack the system, to obtain the new words the Soldiers had been reprogrammed with. Rumlow arrived soon after, before I could act, and I feared with time his operatives would find a way to access the information. If he had certain operative technology, he would be able to interface with the control panels far more easily than my own systems. As soon as they removed the old man from the building, I hacked what I could. There were heavy firewalls around the Soldiers' words, ones that would take weeks for me to break, but I was able to download multitudes of other data and initiate the fatal protocol. Then I left this place, in pursuit of the missing Soldier. When I found the facility he had been moved to months later, it was infiltrated and also empty."

"So this was all a ruse, to kill Buck?" Nat questions, wrist launcher poised and ready, shock set to the highest setting. 

"No, not at all. For a short time, I assumed the missing Soldier was the one called Crossbones, that somehow he was under Zola's command, a puppet pretending to be a king. But then in my journeys I began to hear tales of a man whose description also very much sounded like the missing Soldier. Someone who killed slavers and rapists and marauders. Freed the imprisoned and protected the accosted. Asked nothing in return." 

Val's projection flashes through a montage of video footage, dozens of people describing their experience with him - Buck recognizes the mother from the road and her two children, now a few years older, several of the teenagers from the underpass. There is also footage of Luis as the Soldier provides him with food or medical attention, as the younger man reluctantly talks about him to Val. The image changes to a painting of a male with gray skin, long dark hair, wearing black goggles and a mask, holding an automatic weapon - the shot zooms out and it becomes clear it is on the side of a building dozens of feet high. 

"That's Buck," Nat says with wonder. "What is this?"

"This mural is on the side of a food canning facility two hundred miles from here. Many of the workers and their families sought shelter there, after the collapse. They were held prisoner, some of them consumed, many others tortured and sexually violated. They said a man came, _murdered the murderers_, released them from their pens. They insisted he take food in return and he only accepted a bag of canned fruit. He said nothing save to give his name when asked. Winter Soldier 23."

She turns to Buck. "You were their savior. They celebrated the anniversary of the day you came to them with a festival and unveiled this. It drew Crossbones to them - I realize now - in pursuit of you. I attempted to save the community, ascertained his true identity on the battlefield, but I was unable to stop his army. I fled with the survivors, met Luis. A happy coincidence."

Buck's eyes are wide, still shiny with tears, but no longer glowing. 

"I realized you were so much more than I thought. A hero for the innocent, someone who could help me defeat the thing that is Crossbones and his army." She takes a step towards him. "I know what it is...to be the only one left of your kind." 

The big man hangs his head, will not look at her. 

"I am grateful then, that you are not the only one left of yours," she adds, smiling softly and putting her hand on his arm. 

Buck looks up in surprise. Certainly she could not mean Crossbones, the one she had just asked him to help her destroy. 

Suddenly the heavy glass wall rolls abruptly down over the opening behind them, trapping Luis and Clint inside the cryo area with Maria. 

"Ahhh I told you not to fiddle with that! We're probably about to get gassed or saw blades are going to drop from the ceiling or... Wait. Did you see that? A blip on the scre - " 

Clint cuts off when Hill whirls abruptly, gun in hand; she fires, sending Cecelia flying from his hand, the powerful bow clattering to the floor and coming to rest twenty feet away. Luis jumps at her, diverting the weapon as she pulls the trigger again, but not fast enough. She shoots the archer in the shin. 

"FUCK!!! FUCK!" he screams, falling to the ground. 

The green-eyed man fights with all he's worth, but he's not a trained operative like she is. Maria wrestles the sidearm from him with limited effort, grabs his own as he tries to pull it and kicks him hard in the chest - knocking him back - then shoots him in the stomach. Luis flies through the air, already holding his bleeding belly as he lands hard on the ground and slides against the glass wall near the archer.

Buck runs at the glass, slams himself into it over and over screaming his friend's name, to no avail. There's not so much as a hint of a scratch, even after multiple blows that do not even manage to rattle the mobile wall in the giant framework that houses it many feet into the ceiling and floor. The others hurry over, including the Valkyrie, who attempts to use various tools from her arsenal to cut through the glass. Nothing works.

"This was made to contain two dozen of the Winter Soldiers. It is unlikely we will be able to gain access," Val states. 

"What the fuck is Hill doing?" Steve demands, he and Natasha both scanning the entire area for any weak points or ways to access the other room, such as ventilation shafts - there are none.

Maria is busy at the control panel, running through screens, using the codebreaker to go through firewall after firewall. 

"After I discovered that the Soldier was capable of great good, I felt guilt for what I had done here," the Valkyrie continues. "I returned, to see if any of them could be revived to fight Crossbones. They were all deceased, save three. The cryo units are connected in clusters of four, and the mechanism in Buck's cluster did not work properly with his cryotube empty. A disproportionate amount of the poison entered his chamber, leaving the other three damaged, but comatose and with faint vitals. I gave them blood then refroze them, to slow their gradual decay, until I could find the missing Soldier to help restore them. I left their tanks murky and refroze several of the others so that they would not stand out. Hill must have discovered they lived while utilizing Jasper's device." She points to it plugged into the console.

"Brilliant deduction, Mr. Watson," they hear Maria's voice say from above - she has clearly turned on some manner of intercom system. "That Jasper is a creepy little bastard with very questionable taste in men, but he is a goddamned genius. As soon as I fiddled with this thing in the truck days ago, I could see how many upgrades he made to it. He's probably hacked the tablet already and is out there doing God knows what with that drone. But it won't matter soon. I think I'll bet my three Soldiers against your one and all of you losers. Especially without her to help you." 

She looks pointedly at the Valkyrie, flicks a switch. There is an odd bass sound, a weird pressure in all of their heads that makes their eardrums pop. The Valkyrie grabs her head, screams and falls to the ground. She goes silent, apparently deactivated. 

"What... What did you do to her, you fucking bitch?" Luis demands groggily, half sat up against the glass wall, pressing tight over his gunshot wound. His color is fading fast, his green eyes glassy. 

"Directed electromagnetic pulse. A brilliant defense system to use against high-tech weaponry that might be brought in to try to cut through the barrier. The Valkyrie was quite correct, Buck or Winter or whoever the fuck you are. You know this facility well, and these barriers are designed to keep all of you inside this section of the compound. There is no way you're getting in, short of setting off a nuclear bomb." 

The first of the three tanks clustered with Buck's empty one drains abruptly, the Soldier inside sinking to the bottom of the angled tube then sliding down til his feet are against the tilted flooring. Various tubes stuck into him pump in mixtures of drugs, no doubt readied by Zola years before to assist in reviving them. The tubes retract automatically after, the cylinder lifting to a vertical position. The glass enclosure raises up, leaving the Soldier standing on the now separated bottom. 

"I knew you'd search your house and the premises for listening devices, so I just bugged Phil at the office. I knew every single thing you were planning, roughly what he was planning. The damned sentimental idiot - you should have heard the way he begged Crossbones to spare all of us. Lucky bastard still got the drop on me with that ambush." 

"Then," Luis croaks, "you knew I didn't call the Xers. Why single me out?"

"Before I worked for Fury, I worked high-level operations for immigration. I busted my ass for years to get people like you and your parasite families out of this country, then the new administration went soft on illegals and my team got downsized. I got reassigned to be a glorified assistant to that pompous ass. But more importantly, it became obvious right away that you distrusted me. Out of all these people, with so much more training than you, you were the only one that seemed to sense I had an agenda and you weren't quiet about it. I wanted to shut you up." Hill turns back to the control panel, grinning in self-satisfaction. "I also find the _two of you_ together particularly saccharine and annoying."

"Maybe I just still remember what la migra stink like from them hassling my mother at her salon all the time. She was totally legal by the way, and I was born here, you racist asshole. Sorry I'm getting laid and you're not. Maybe if you didn't look like your pussy leaks lemon household cleaner, someone would want to eat it."

"Laugh it up, pretty boy. While you still have a face," Hill says calmly.

Luis sees random words on the haloprojection from the control console as Hill shifts out of the way for only seconds. She swiftly hits a button to switch it to a multi-screen security feed. Clint is busy wrapping his belt around his leg below the knee, slowing the bleeding from his shin. When he's done the older man pulls off his hooded sweatshirt and presses it to the smaller man's belly, eyes huge and panicked at the amount of red on Luis' clothes. 

"Hey, hey, it's gonna be okay," the green-eyed man assures the archer, grinning weakly, his breathing quick and shallow. "Cálmate, papi."

Hill leans up on tip-toes, whispers something in the gray, partially decayed thing's (man's?) ear.

"Winter Soldier 21, ready to comply," he responds.


	79. Running up that Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis makes a sacrifice.

Hill works the control panel, draining the other two cryotubes and getting them upright, as she holds a gun on Clint and Luis. She had sent Winter Soldier 21 further into the facility to shower, put on a uniform and arm himself, then to the cooler to bring back a cart of blood bags. Maria could see on the security feed that their "food" storage was quite well-stocked - the Valkyrie had apparently been busy gathering bags from her enemies and stockpiling it for the awakening. No wonder the cyborg had the transfusion equipment handy when Clint was shot.

The list of tasks take the Soldier all of five minutes, and he returns with the supplies in full uniform, an automatic weapon strapped across his back, knife and sidearm in their holsters. Clearly Maria had selected 21 because he was the least damaged - 22 is now conscious but cannot even stand, and 24 is still comatose. They are both badly degraded. Luis can tell 21 has fed; he still looks worse for wear, his veins sunken and tinted dark, but overall he's far more healthy in coloring and his open wounds have all shrank or closed. He's a big fellow, even taller and broader than Winter and more muscular, almost 1980s action star big.

Luis absently notes 21 is a much lighter shade of gray than his friend - he probably had a lily white complexion as a human judging by the shock of new-copper-penny red hair. It's shorter than Buck's, probably grown out from some kind of low top with buzzed sides style. Military cut maybe? It would make sense they would do this sick shit to dead soldiers, people who already had hard-wired combat reflexes. 21's bare arms are covered in freckles that seem to run across his shoulders under the vest and there's dozens across his cheeks and nose, just to confirm the pasty complexion theory. The little specks run the gamut from medium gray to almost-black rather than their typical shades of brown. 

"Process must effect the melanin somehow," Luis mumbles, so pale himself it looks like he's lost his own pigmentation. "I thought a redhead would be the death of me." He grins at Clint, who turns with frightened eyes to look at Natasha. 

She's lost some of her usual composure, nostrils flaring and eyes tinged with fear as she presses her hand to the glass near where he sits on the floor - it's clear she can hear Luis and his tone says he believes this is the end. Clint places his hand over hers, his other still holding the hoodie to the younger man's stomach (the bloodflow from his bullet wound has mercifully slowed). 

"Goddamn soulless gingers," the archer grins, looking into his wife's eyes. 

21 is rigging bloodbags to the shared IV system for the remaining Soldiers' quad. Hill is sure to close the valves into Buck's and 21's tubes - unlike the idiot who had left 23's open before, allowing so much of the toxin to end up in the empty cryotube - ensuring all of that revitalizing nutrition goes right into the Soldiers' veins. 

"Hill, we can come to some kind of an arrangement. Just let them go," the assassin offers, hands now in fists at her sides. 

"No can do, Romanov, even though I dislike you least of this lot. See, I've got a lot of work to be done on my end before I'm going to be ready to open that door and let ol' Bucky in. By then, the kid'll be dead anyway but maybe, maybe if you surrender, beg me on your knees while the Soldiers kill your friends, I'll let Clint live. Even though I've never understood what you saw in someone so crass and stupid. And don't say good dick is hard to find - your husband clearly didn't have a problem finding himself some. What's that like anyway? Knowing that he likes to get fucked up the ass by this cocky little loser?" 

"It's pretty hot, actually, and Luis isn't...totally hateable," Natasha replies calmly for Clint's benefit, her version of an _ I was wrong before_ \- maybe the younger man taking a bullet trying to protect the archer had changed her mind on a few things.

"You may want to rethink this, Hill. Or should I call you _María_?" Clint emphasizes the Spanish pronunciation of her name, mocking her earlier anti-Latino sentiments. "Maybe you've got a Mexican grandpa, like me, except you keep abuelo secret so your friends won't know. Anyway, that Soldier probably fed a whole bunch, and it still looks like shit. The other two are in even worse shape. You really think these three rotting flesh bags are going to take on Buck, a seasoned government assassin, a Valkyrie who's going to be very pissed when she reboots, and a tiny, rabid blonde with severe anger management problems and a mean right hook? I don't really think you're going to come out on top of this one, lady. It's better you just open the doors now, get into your best bootlicking stance and beg my hot wife and best friends not to kill you. I'm sure Fury would give you a nice cozy cell at the drunk tank until he figures out what to do with you. Shit, as tight as you two are, he might chalk this up to temporary insanity or something."

She laughs, loud and long, actually holding her belly with the hand not aiming Luis' own gun at them, her own now holstered. 

"Soldier," she addresses 21 - the other two are still without the words, still immobile and silent. "Clean my boots with your tongue. And if that one speaks again," she points the gun directly at Clint's face, "rape the other one."

Clint's mouth snaps shut as 21 drops to his hands and knees in an instant and lathes his tongue over the filthy leather, caked with over a week's worth of blood and grime.

"I think what you need, 21, so you're not such a _rotting fleshbag_, as Clint so helpfully pointed out, is some fresh blood. Feed yourself from that one's wound," she juts her chin at Luis. "Do it slow. If he resists, kill the other one." 

Buck screams, starts battering the glass wall with his metal fist again and again until his fingers start to dent in. Luis turns a bit, meets his friend's eyes, presses a bloody hand to the glass and shakes his head.

"Stop, Winter, stop. You're gonna need that hand, buddy. To keep blondie safe. Go help Val. It'll all be okay. Trust me. Go now. Go on."

Buck reluctantly does as he's told. Steve stands planted, wide-eyed as 21 crawls obediently to Luis. The smaller man turns to eye Clint, pushes his hand and the bloody cloth it holds away as the archer violently shakes his head, lips still pressed tight to not let a word out.

"It'll be okay. It'll be okay," the green-eyed man assures him. He turns to gaze at Winter Soldier 21; his irises are copper too, but start to glow the deep orange of a jack-o-lantern with a lit candle inside as the small man lifts his shirt, exposing the oozing wound. "Drink up, big guy," he offers. 

The Soldier crouches down, locks his mouth over the hole and sucks. Luis grits his teeth against the horrible pain, then hangs his head, mouth starting to work almost soundlessly. Hill catches an occasional word or phrase - "taste good" stands out a few times. She realizes he must be delirious, babbling, probably close to passing out. After a few seconds, 21 pulls back, spits out the smashed slug he'd drawn loose, then returns his mouth to the gunshot. It surprises her a bit as she hadn't told him to remove it, but perhaps it was just a matter of practical concern if it formed an obstruction to blood flow once the sucking caused it to dislodge - that would have prevented him from following her command to feed.

"This is a little preview of the future waiting for Nick Fury when I return to that shit hole," Maria offers, weapon still trained on Clint. "I'll take any fighters there worth keeping, let the Soldiers drink the rest, and then I'll go from place to place, building my army. Every killer for a thousand miles will flock to me when they see what I have at my command. Then I can challenge Crossbones, merge what's left of his forces into my own. I could rule this entire region, maybe even this half of the continent."

"Those are some...serious rage issues you got, lady," Luis manages. "What did old Baldy McOne Eye ever do to you?"

She finally eases the gun down a bit, away from Clint's face, distracted by the anger that bubbles up within her.

"I had to endure years of his mood swings and his ego and his self-righteous bullshit! Years more of it in Claptrap watching him let those goddamn civvies think they run the show, putting _our people_ at risk to protect them. Before Fury, I led my entire division. My word was law. And at his discretion, my people were transferred and I was made his fucking secretary! I was reduced to making that sad loser Coulson think I liked him, so that I could stay in the know with what was happening with all of you idiots, since Fury seemed content to let you run amuck. Do you have any idea what it's like, to be so fucking golden you have every ear in the room the second you step in, before you even open your mouth, and then have it all stripped away from you in an instant, to be laid low, your pride crushed?"

"Sort of," Luis rasps. "In my school, I was the brilliant one. Top of my class every year, skipped several grades, never had to put the slightest bit of effort into learning anything. It just all _stuck_. Teachers acted like I walked on water. Then I tested into this special school, and I realized I was the dumb kid in a class full of little Stephen Hawkings. You know what I found out? My IQ really isn't a ton above average. I'm never going to invent some complex physics equation or cure a disease or explain the mysteries of the human mind. I just have a photographic memory. If I see something once, for a couple of seconds, I remember it forever." 

Realization dawns on her face - Luis had, for the briefest moment, seen the screen with the verbal prompts. 

"Soldier, kill him!" Hill demands.

21 does not move. Maria quickly starts to say the command words, realizing suddenly at least part of what Luis had been mumbling under his breath (just loud enough for the Soldier to hear). Before she can get more than two out, Luis says, "now."

The Soldier sits up abruptly, revealing the green-eyed man's stomach is healed, and jams his gray fingers deep in his ears as he starts to yell "lalalalalala" at full volume over and over. It drowns her out, but she tries to scream the words anyway. Luis locks eyes with 21, then outstretches his arm quickly, pointing a finger at Maria as if he were an old time Puritan accusing a witch. The Soldier stands abruptly, still plugging his ears and yelling, and turns to go at Maria. It's almost comical, until she starts shooting wildly as he serpentines towards her. Luis throws himself over Clint, trying to protect him from the stray shots as they go through or pass by the quickly advancing Soldier. 21 kicks Hill in the chest, crushing her sternum and rib cage. When she's down on her back, coughing out blood, he proceeds to stomp her skull into the floor so hard it looks like someone dropped a jar of strawberry jelly and threw a wig partially over the mess.

The big ginger stops, calmly walks to the control terminal and raises the wall. Buck rushes to Luis, a woozy looking Val following. 

"He needs blood," the Valkyrie signs. She heads to the blood cart, starts stabbing the ultra thin needle from her finger in various bags, testing them. She comes back with several units that are the same blood type as his.

"This is all. Since he is a universal donor, it is extremely difficult to match his blood type," she signs to Buck - 21 is still yelling "lalalala." Apparently Luis forgot to tell him to stop once Hill was dead when he was giving his other instructions.

Val takes out the transfusion apparatus and hooks it up to the blood sack, has Buck hold the bag high as she inserts the needle into Luis' arm. She rushes off, returning from further in the compound with a litany of medications, and begins giving the young man injections.

"Winter," Luis mouths, drown out by 21. Buck leans close, ear almost to Luis' mouth. The young man passes out seconds later. The brunette hands the bag to Steve, crosses the room to the other Soldier and quickly whispers the words into his ear. 21 goes silent, arms going to his sides, then offers:

"Ready to comply." 

"Drain the corpse," Buck instructs. 

21 quickly obeys, latching onto the artery in Hill's thigh. There is not a lot left in there, and he does not know how to use his pulse, but it is something. 

"Part of why I needed you is to give a transfusion to each of them," Val offers to Buck. "Human blood is not enough to recover when their bodies are so toxic. I have gathered a large amount of supplies for you to replenish yourself between transfusions. Do you believe this will be enough?" She gestures her head towards the cart filled with blood bags.

"I will retrieve the prisoners," Buck replies.


	80. Dream a little dream of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldiers have very different ideas about helping.

Luis wakes up in the back of the cargo truck feeling _quite_ pleasant aside from a rather large transfusion needle in his arm (again!) and wishing he could sleep for a month. He's fuzzy, clearly on something, and there's someone big and warm next to him - he turns, expecting to see the archer or Buck, but Winter Soldier 21 is sitting there. 

"Looks like we're in the same boat, Red," the green-eyed man says to the ginger Soldier with a smile, eyeing the needle in his arm and following the purple-filled tubing attached to it up to Buck. "Is that safe? To give him so much?" It's obvious from how 21 looks he's received a lot. 

"I had an ample blood supply thanks to you and the Valkyrie. I have already replenished the other Soldiers and he will not need nearly as much. His blood was not as contaminated and I did not need to remove as much of it. You must have guessed he was not very toxic when you had him heal you. His blood did cause a small reaction in your tissue, but the medication and a shot of mine seem to have counteracted it. I did not want to move you until you woke, but we did not think it wise to stay in the facility too long. Val said Crossbones knows its location."

"So you and Val're all good? No Super Soldier battle to the death? Silver versus Gray? Robo-David versus Vampire-Goliath? Wow...what kind of drugs did you guys give me? I'm fucked up." 

"I do not know. The Valkyrie administered them and...yes. I have chosen to...forgive her for her actions. She believed she was doing what was best, to protect the undeserving." He removes the needle from the other Soldier and himself, sterilizes the tubing with a bottle of clear liquid, then stows it all away in a kit. "I am grateful that she saved the others after discovering my deeds on the road. She was also able to pop the metal of my fingers back into place with a magnetic field generated from her own." 

Buck holds up his hand and it looks almost completely normal other than a minor crease along the back of two digits. He picks up a blood bag and starts sucking from the tube attached to it - it's shocking how quickly he drains it and reaches for another given how much time he'd always taken feeding on Luis.

The smaller man slowly sits up, stretches as he eyes 21. "You're not too bad lookin' now, Red. Much less rotten old dish rag and much more freshly poured sidewalk. I think I need some of that serum. You guys are all so jacked." The smaller man, bleary eyed, gives 21's bicep a playful squeeze. "You've got pretty eyes, like Buck, but a different color. Woah!" Luis pulls his hand back abruptly, looks startled, but then grins. "He just looked at me without you telling him to. I wasn't expecting that. Like...what all can he do without being ordered?" 

"Very little if under full control. However, the Valkyrie discovered when they reprogrammed the limiters they can now be adjusted. It was something new they were experimenting with, to give them more autonomy in the field in the absence of command as well as to offer more assistance to those directing them. I do not have his limiter at full capacity. He is...slightly sentient, capable of taking in more sensory data and of some independent thought, though they seem to revolve around anticipating the needs of his handler. I have ordered him to serve and protect you, to listen to you as he would me, until you are back to normal."

"I thought it looked like someone was actually home in there, instead of the lights just bein' on in an empty house. Serve and protect, huh? Like a cop. You a cop, Red?" Luis grins at 21. 

Buck stares at Luis for a moment, then at 21. He remembers _something_, tries hard to focus. It becomes more solid than most of his other pre-Soldier memories, colors going vivid. He sees 21, but human, in a police uniform, holding a weapon and yelling, then gunfire. Three bullets pass through his vest in the same place as Buck's scars. 

"Soldier, remove your vest," Buck orders. The redhead complies, revealing three healed circular marks in the center of his chest. 

"Woah! Those look like yours." Luis reaches out, touches one lightly. 21 looks down at his fingers then up into his green eyes. The smaller man offers him a little smile, pulls his hand back. "Sorry, big guy. I'm high. How'd you know about those, Winter?" 

"I...believe I knew this man. When I was human. I believe we...died together." Buck places a hand over his own chest, closes his eyes, tries to focus. "Wezolowski. Wez. That is what I called him." 

"Wow, that's crazy. Maybe you two together will be able to figure out who you were, where you're from." Luis turns to eye 21. "Do you wanna be called Wez? Or do you like Red better?" the green-eyed man asks. 

"It is your preference," 21 responds, voice low and soft. 

"Oh-ho-hoooo! Wow. Umm, I like Red. For now. But if you change your mind, you just tell me." Luis pulls his arms around himself, shivers. "Man, I'm cold all of a sudden. Chilly back here. Maybe one'a'my baaaang buddies will cuddle with me." He laughs. "Ohhhh sorry. Shit, I'm high. Wait. Where is everyone else?" 

Buck looks down at his hands. "Win is in the cab." 

"Okay, but where is everyone else? And why aren't we moving? Are we camped? Are they outside?" 

"We...got separated. And I need to go find them. I just wanted to ensure 21...Red...was ready to watch over you while I am away. Soldier, are you fully operational?" 

"Affirmative. I am prepared to protect and serve the asset."

"Oh, so I have the same code name as the mysterious metal box? Call me Luis, Red."

"Yes, Luis," 21 responds. 

"You know his words, if you need them for some reason, but he should comply with all your requests without hesitation at this level." The brunette readies his weapons. 

"Winter? Buck? Do I need to be worried. Is something wrong?" Luis' big eyes fill with concern. 

"Everything will be alright. You must trust me. Stay in the cargo box, rest, regain your strength. Do not leave for any reason. If Win requires assistance, she will alert you." Buck gestures to a walkie nearby. 

"Okay, buddy." Luis holds both arms up to his friend like a toddler asking to be lifted. "Hug!" he insists. 

The bigger man kneels down, let's the younger man slide his arms around him and returns the gesture, resting his chin in the dark curls. "I am happy you are safe. You were very brave and clever." 

Buck sits up, appreciates the dopey smile on the green-eyed man's face. 

"That's what you always say about Steve." 

Buck sighs. "_Do not remind me_. Remember my directions. Do not leave the trailer." With that, he takes his leave. 

Luis yawns. "I'm crashing out. Red, man, you feel pretty warm now." He leans against the big redhead. "I know..." He yawns wider. "I should be worried about snuggling with an unstoppable, blood thirsty killing machine, but..." He settles in closer to the big man, drags a blanket over himself. "You did save my life. And my sort of boyfriend's life. And I'm really high. I order you to..." He yawns again, smacks his tongue off the roof of his mouth a few times. "Hold me." 

The ginger Soldier surprises him when he pulls Luis onto his lap, situates him comfortably sideways to rest against his chest, settles the blanket around him. The smaller man chuckles and relaxes. 

"You're full of surprises. Heh. Just like Clint. Sexy. Fucking. Clint. You cannot believe the weirdness my life has turned into, Red. One day... you're in Queens...with Maritza...and your bros...totally...hetero...then bam.......your best friends are...... government super soldiers...and you're......putting your......in a guy's......bamminvut...vortis...mehhhnnn..." 

Luis starts snoring, out cold. It's not long before he's drooling on both of them. The drugs give him vivid dreams, flashing back through memories of the archer. He's somewhat aware he's asleep, watching himself and the older man interact sometimes and others seeing through his own eyes like it's happening now. Luis revisits all the little looks and exchanged words with the older man, things they both would have taken for flirting if the other were a woman. He feels stupid now, not realizing sooner, but they'd both been so oblivious. Then they're back at the hotel, in the rain, Clint naked and Luis' underpants so sheer he may as well be. And he sees, or rather notices seeing, what he'd carefully ignored before - the other man's eyes running over him. It's the same when they get out of the pool, a certain look that makes something warm flare in him that he'd brushed off as a soft towel feeling so good over his damp, goosebump covered skin. 

The scene in the master bedroom isn't exactly what really happened. He watches himself and Clint kissing, bathed in firelight, the rest of the room empty. Suddenly he's not seeing - he's participating. He's vaguely aware of how painfully hard he is. 

"Mmmm...stroke my cock," he whispers, something he'd never in a million years have been brave enough to request if the archer hadn't asked, even feed-drunk.

The older man's big hand wraps around him, hot and slick with something, and then Luis is panting and groaning as it slides up and down his length. 

"Just like that, papi! Just like that! Oh! Ohhh!" 

In the blink of an eye he's inside Clint, fucking him on his back like the first time, but careful and slow, watching his face contort with pleasure. He can't help but wonder what that's like, to be filled like that. Besides the brief intrusion by Val no one has ever touched him there. Just as suddenly as he was on top of him they're next to each other again, Clint's lips on his neck, hand on his cock. He asks something he's also not sure he'd have the courage for in the real world. 

"Put...put a finger in me. Nice and slow." 

The bigger man moans against his skin, brings his hand up to slick his digits. Then there's the soft press of a wet fingertip against his opening. He's so relaxed, so comfortable, not a care in the world - it's not real after all - and it goes into him with relative ease despite how tight he knows he is there. His mind supplies the imagined sensation, similar to when the Valkyrie had taken liberty with him but different. He knows Clint's fingers are thicker - the fat digit slowly opens him and he wonders if this is how it really feels, being penetrated deeper, filled. The archer just rests it there, letting him get used to it the way Luis would were he the one doing the fingering. After a minute he gets impatient - he laughs a bit at getting frustrated with his own fantasy. 

"Make me cum like this," he whispers. 

The digit starts to move, slowly in and out and then hooking a bit as well. It hits his sensitive spot, makes fire spread between his legs, down his thighs, into his lower belly. He whimpers. 

"That's so good. That's so....ohhhhh! Put.... Put in another finger." 

Why not? Go big or go home right? A second slick finger eases in a bit, pauses, then ever so slowly pushes forward. And isn't that something - imagining the way it would feel to be stretched like that by a careful, experienced hand. He groans softly, noises getting louder as the archer moves a bit faster, angles his hand, curves his fingers. The stimulation on his prostate is incredible and he's momentarily impressed at how much detail his mind supplies given his extremely limited experience in this arena. Then he's just squeezing his eyes shut and moaning, losing himself to it. He's suddenly aware of cool air on his stomach, his thighs - it's good against his blazing hot skin and he's going to spill soon, so soon. 

High-pitched little sounds come out of him over and over and his eyes flutter open, expecting to see the archer. Red is staring down at him, something vaguely hungry in his copper eyes despite how placid his face is. Luis is confused, his drug-addled brain so muddled. How did the Soldier get here, in the master bedroom with them? He must be a bit awake, but mostly asleep, because he can still feel Clint's fingers just the same edging him closer, closer. The green-eyed man tilts his head down slowly - sounds still pouring out of him helplessly, because it feels so good, so good, and he wants to stay in the dream, wants so badly to tip over the edge - and sees the Soldier's arm he can now feel wrapped around his back and side has his shirt pushed up, exposing his stomach, and the clean sweats someone had dressed him in after the facility are pushed half way to his knees. The hand working between his legs is decidedly not Clint's. 

Without warning he cums hard, arching back and bellowing as his hot release shoots across his belly, his prostate pulsing in time with his cock. His body is completely given over to it and out of his control. Red stares down at him as he works him through it with his hand, unblinking, and Luis realizes as his pleasure crests that he's most definitely not in a dream.


	81. You can't handle the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this crazy, wild ride months ago, I never thought that life would imitate art so soon and we would be living through a literal pandemic as I was continuing to write this. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has stuck through this incredibly long, winding, weird-sex-filled romp through the post-apocalypse and welcome to all those new folks who are popping on now that they have time stuck inside their houses to read this massive epic.
> 
> I love you all. Stay safe. And as Clint says, use lots of lube.

After Luis is set up in the cargo box with Win looking after him - the welder stuffing down the intense concern that had blossomed on her face when Buck arrived with the younger man's unconscious body - the brunette goes to the cell on the back of the other truck. He takes a deep breath and then charges in, blindly grabbing the first two Xers within his reach then carrying their bound bodies back into the facility. The Soldier and the Valkyrie busy themselves getting transfusions of his blood into 22 and 24, and the brunette drinks gluttonously from the prisoners after each, draining them practically to the last drop. He is afraid he will turn feral if he only has the old, stored stuff, but also he is ravenous after several days without feeding combined with his exertions against the impenetrable glass wall. 

He gives a large amount of the bagged blood to Soldiers 22 and 24 to drink before taking them to the surface and demonstrating how to empty the remaining deserving without wasting. It gives him a nameless pleasure to see them feed carefully as he had shown them, to grow strong and heal fully. 22 and 24 - both females - are very familiar to him, as well as 21. The handlers often split the Soldiers into their cryo quad cohorts for training. He recalls that all four of them had been quite uncooperative before the limiters, the big redhead most of all, and had required extra security and more extreme punishment. 

Where Buck would lose control of his need - or his want once their training had allowed him to push the need down - going for blood, the bigger Soldier seemed to do things that in retrospect displayed quite a bit of intelligence compared to the semi-aware animals the rest of them were. He recalls overhearing conversations between the guards, discussing how 21 would not feed on those they put in his cell until he was absolutely starving and could not stop himself, how he had - more than once - smuggled a weapon or an object that could be used as one back to his cell with him. It occurs to Buck that perhaps 21 kept more of his real self than he or the others had, was less monster and more whoever came before. 

The big redhead - on Buck's orders - was currently busy helping Steve, Nat and a freshly healed Clint scavenge the facility. There's a weapons locker only a Soldier can open - similar to the asset crate but smaller and far less densely stocked - and they take everything inside once the big redhead pops it for them. The people who ran this place could anticipate the humans who worked there - those without high enough clearance to know the words - betraying them, trying to steal the technology to sell, but not the Soldiers, not their mindless, docile slaves. Almost everything is accessible to 21, with only certain isolated areas possessing separation walls like the one by the cryotubes. There's medical supplies too, things Val began hoarding there after she returned to the compound to see if she could revive any of the Soldiers and on her subsequent return visits to review the surveillance recordings. 

Despite her many talents, the Valkyrie had not discerned a way to link up with the facility's computer system remotely and had very limited access to the mainframe - she came back frequently to check the status of the Soldiers, to ensure her ruse was not discovered once she was aware of the three live ones, as she searched for their missing brethren. Luis had incurred great risk sneaking transponders from his new acquaintances, alerting her he found 23 - Winter as he called him - and to their mission. He wanted to wait til just the right time to introduce her, frightened the others would turn against him if he told them about his superhuman, Soldier-seeking, Crossbones fighting friend. 

The Xer ambush had been a blessing for ingratiating herself to his new friends. Luis didn't know precisely what was happening when he'd called her the last time, but he had a bad feeling when Phil claimed to hear something in the woods - either he did and they were potentially in danger from a lurking force, something the green-eyed man didn't want to risk after they'd tangled with the large band of cannibals earlier that evening, or Phil was lying to distract Buck and there was something very different going on. It was the blessing and curse of his photographic memory to remember seeing little things forever others would quickly forget and there was something in Coulson's behavior (like Hill's) that struck him after enough small incidents piled together. 

It had taken every bit of Val's processing capabilities to gain access to Protocol Zero quickly those years ago - she had briefly observed Zola uselessly attempting to hack the system and realized he was probably not a threat, but he was swiftly intruded upon by Rumlow and ran to hide. She'd badly wanted to kill Brock when he had entered the facility, watching from her silently hovering drone while she lay in hiding, but he had a team of his best trained and heavily armed commandos with him and she was not bulletproof. Watching him explode with rage as he realized the Soldiers - standing blankly on the bases of their now-raised cryotubes - would not respond to the words he had obtained from...somewhere...was a great joy to her. She could posit a guess that after he discovered the program, he had tortured the (now old, useless) words out of one of its former employees or supervisors.

Then his team of ex-ops hackers arrived once he'd removed the scientist. She'd guessed there would only be a small window before more of his forces would descend to further search the facility. The Valkyrie only wished she could have seen Rumlow's face after his people reported they'd found his technicians dead and his prized weapons not just inactive but loaded back into their cryotubes and destroyed. She couldn't risk staying though, had swiftly, cautiously exited through the tunnel and ran silently before she was seen. 

Now, with the impressive codebreaker, she has access to everything he couldn't reach, information that she herself had spent immense time attempting to obtain. Finally, she would know the Soldiers' words. The one called Hill certainly had ample knowledge of this type of system, and had used the device very efficiently to systematically take down every firewall. Thousands of terabytes compress and download into Val after she plugs herself into a port, her systems reviewing, sorting, searching. 

"The only mentions of Jasper Sitwell are of a visit to this facility, his subsequent refusal to utilize the Soldiers and a formal request he logged with his superiors to have the facility closed, which was ignored. He is not a member of those who ran the program or their leadership and they spied on him to ascertain how much of a threat he was." 

The Valkyrie sounds pleased as she relays this information to the others, returning with their carts and armloads of supplies. She'd found the bespectacled man highly intelligent and the upgrades he had made to the device were impressive. Perhaps he could be useful to her needs without Dr. Pym to assist with potential future maintenance or damage. 

"What about Maria Hill?" Nat asks, moving to stand beside her at the terminal. "How does she factor into this?" 

The Valkyrie's flickering pupils go solid green for a brief moment. Hill appears on the haloscreen - it's a chest up shot in uniform, an official photo from Ops. "Maria Hill was, unbeknownst to her, a member of a group of twenty four operatives from which genetic material for the Winter Soldier project was harvested."

"I don't understand. The Soldiers were created long before she was even born," Steve comments, flanking her other side. 

"The human body breaks down at a cellular level fairly quickly after death, and while the serum and other procedures administered did cause the formation of new genetic bonds, it did not fill all of the gaps caused by this initial damage to the body. As genetic technology advanced, the researchers here discovered more and more of these small gaps, and they felt it led to the Soldiers being too erratic, too inhuman, to properly condition." 

More video appears, several Soldiers attacking a guard after he whips one of them.

"They cleaned up their genetic structure based on material taken from the operatives. It was, of course, unsuccessful in altering their behavior sufficiently for all Soldiers and they were given the limiters not long after. It seems Buck's group was the first to receive them. They maintained a larger portion of what was believed to be residual memory and behaviors from before the procedure that reanimated them than the other twenty, number 21 in particular. The limiters were successful, but could make complex situations difficult for the Soldiers to grasp or respond to with no autonomy. They upgraded the chip while you were at the secondary facility, Buck. They can be adjusted with a verbal command to reduce how strict their control is." 

She displays a video of a handler giving the command.

The brunette turns to 21. "Soldier, reduce limiter to eighty-percent."

"Affirmative, limiter reduced. How may I serve you, sir?" 

"Interesting. He offered words not directly in response to my order." He says more to himself than anyone, before addressing the other Soldier again. "Do you feel hunger, Soldier?" 

"Negative. Do you wish further report on my condition?" 

"No. Please sit down and wait for me," Buck requests.

The redheaded Soldier sits down immediately in the exact spot he was standing. 

"Hmm, it's like he's more intuitive this way," Steve muses, "anticipating what you might want. Seems to take orders just fine still."

"Who else did they use for the program?" Nat asks warily, drawing their attention back to the Valkyrie. 

The screen flicks again, showing twenty four small images, each of them numbered to correspond to a Soldier. Natasha breathes a sigh of relief, her image not present. The blonde's eyes trail over the photos for a moment. 

"Expand that one!" he suddenly insists, pointing. 

When the Valkyrie does as asked, he raises an arm to quickly cover his mouth, eyes going wide and shiny. 

"Did that fuck hurt you?" Nat queries. "I remember him from Ops."

He slowly slides his hand away from his lips, shakes his head. "Jack's...number twenty-three." Steve barely breathes. 

"So, King of the Boom _Jack Rollins_ has his pyro DNA in our pal Buck," the petite redhead says snarkily, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Affirmative," Val responds, eyes narrowing. "Jack Rollins and the others passed a battery of physical, biological and psychological testing to be selected for this program. However, they were unaware what in fact they were being tested or selected for. During the collapse, it appears multiple people took advantage of lax security to hack and download encoded complete personnel files for several of these operatives and discovered the project. Hill's and Rollins' records were among them. This terminal does not have remote access for security reasons but does receive data pings when related information is accessed offsite." 

"You look...maybe a bit too upset about this, Steve," the assassin comments. "If Jack didn't hurt you, were you two...involved?" 

Steve just nods. 

"There's no accounting for taste, Rogers. But it does explain a few things," Nat quips, hooking a thumb at Buck - who has come to stand beside Steve. "I couldn't place the familiarity about the big guy's looks before, but there's a vague resemblance. Not to mention he could have hardwired attraction to your body type from his DNA." She turns to the brunette. "Hopefully you didn't inherit being a douchebag with delusions of grandeur." 

"I am....honored that Jack is a part of me," Buck says softly, gently taking Steve's hand. 

"Honored?! Jack Rollins is a murderer! He aided Brock Rumlow in killing my sisters!" the Valkyrie spits, whirling to eye the taller man.

"I'm sorry for what you lost, but Jack did...what he thought was right, even if he didn't like it. Just like you did when you killed the Soldiers," Steve says, not unkindly. "He thought they were going to build a better world with the weapons here. He didn't know what Brock was. He didn't even know that the Soldiers were what they were looking for. Brock probably hacked his file."

"How do you know these men? Were you members of Brock's army?" Val demands of them. 

"Brock abducted Steve, held him hostage....hurt him. Jack cared greatly for Steve, protected him from Brock, gave his own life to ensure Brock and his lieutenants would die," Buck offers. 

Val's face twists into something bitter. "I am sorry, Steve. Perhaps I could forgive Jack, if only he were successful in killing Rumlow." 

"He was!" Steve insists. "I mean...he got him close to the bomb I built, which he helped me arm, and made sure it got him. _Fucking Brock didn't die and I actually finished him off_... but...Jack deserves some of the credit." The blonde quirks up one side of his mouth in a distant cousin of a smile, thinking of his old friend and all he had sacrificed for Steve to be standing here now.

The Valkyrie leaps suddenly across the room, turns her massive weapon from around her back to face them. "Did you trick Luis, to lure me here? To make me help you with the computer? Was that your plan? I will destroy all of you before I will let you take the Soldiers to Crossbones!" 

Buck quickly pushes Steve behind him, Nat hoisting her pistols. Clint has an arrow drawn and aimed in seconds.

"I think we have a serious case of miscommunication here, Val," the petite redhead states calmly. "How about we take a few deep breaths and talk this through. So, Brock and Jack killed your people, and that sucks. And I knew them both from my Ops days, which also sucks, because they both hit on me constantly and eww, what a pair of nobgobblers, but we were definitely on opposite sides after the Collapse. You have a Nick Fury in your data banks? That's my boss. He's a huge proponent of burning this place and everyone reanimated here into the ground and he personally led a group of us to kill Brock Rumlow when he caught wind he was trying to make it here."

"Fuck, Nat!" Steve barks.

"Yeah, sorry kiddo, but Fury wanted that tidbit under wraps."

"You fucking ex-ops just can't help yourselves!" Clint chimes in.

"Yeah, yeah, chew me out later. So to recap, Val. Steve hate Brock. Nat hate Brock. Nat's boss hate Brock and Soldiers. But Nat want to help Soldiers anyway because Buck cool people and make friend Steve happy. So what does all this have to do with Big Bad Xer Man?"

"Do you think we know Crossbones because some of Rumlow's people are with him now? Like that scumbag Vullo back at the town?" Steve queries, but gets no reply. "I swear to you, Brock was the worst person on the face of the earth and none of us helped him. I didn't even know him when you fought him and Jack never mentioned it. Jack kept things from me, things he was ashamed of. Shit, maybe he did know about the Soldiers and he just never told me. But he did help me, and it got him killed, and any of Brock's people who are left want me dead. Vullo even _said_ he knew I blew up his friends, so if he knows, they all do! Brock..." the blonde stops, swallows hard, "Brock raped me. Again and again. There's no way I'd be in league with _anyone_ who served him! That any of us would! We don't know Crossbones and we're definitely not on his side!" 

The glow in the Valkyrie's eyes softens, dies out as she stares at the mechanic. She lowers her massive gun. 

"I had heard the tales in the wasteland, that Rumlow and most of what was left of his army that my sisters and I did not eliminate were killed in an explosion, his remaining forces scattered to the wind. I had hoped it was true, especially when I could find no sign of him as I searched for the missing Winter Soldier. But then I saw. In the battle at the canning settlement, when his mask came off." She pauses, eyes them for a long time, settling on Steve. "You...you really do not know, do you?" 

"Know what?" The mechanic steps fully from behind his boyfriend, brows furrowing slightly.

When the Valkyrie speaks it is barely above a whisper. 

"Rumlow is Crossbones." 

"That's not possible," the mechanic guffaws. "I saw him die." 

"I would know the man who murdered my sisters anywhere!" Val insists. "I was as close to him as I am to you now. I saw his face!"

Steve surges forward. "We hit him with a shrapnel bomb. I slit his throat! I set him on fire!! I rigged a whole truck of explosives to blow fifteen feet from his smoking body!! He's dead!!! HE'S FUCKING DEAD!!!!" He gradually grows louder and louder until he's shouting, his deep voice echoing off the high metal ceiling. 

The Valkyrie raises her arm, projects an image on the wall that is clearly recorded from her own eyes. It is Crossbones based on the description Luis gave them, ripping apart a man with his bare hands. Several people take advantage to attack him, shooting him from multiple directions as one strikes his head with a long pipe. The composite helmet flies off and the face beneath - a sickly shade of gray, every visible tooth long and jagged like a shark, skin twisted and lumpy with burn scars, eyes glowing red, random strands of thick, dark hair running back on the mutilated scalp - is unmistakably that of Brock Rumlow. 

The blonde freezes, eyes going wide, face draining of color. He swallows hard, shakes his head, adjusts his rifle strap, then turns to walk to the supply cart. He grabs a sack of weapons from the pile they've amassed. 

"Perhaps before the second blast, his remaining foot soldiers found him, took him dead or nearly so to Zola who gave him some version of the Soldier formula he concocted on the road," Val offers.

"We should start loading the truck," the blonde says calmly, then turns and walks towards the entrance. 

Buck looks after him, opens his mouth, but has no words. 

"We'll help him take the stuff up," Clint offers, grabbing a sack. "You get my boy 21 sorted." 

Nat pats Buck lightly on the arm before leaving with her own bag. 

"I...am sorry," the Valkyrie whispers to him, "for everything." 

She follows the others with the final container, leaving Buck alone with 21 in this place that, once again, has brought so much suffering.


	82. A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis learns some unpleasant lessons.

For a minute, Luis literally can't think. His mind is floating in a sea of drugs and endorphins and he's aware of nothing but feeling warm and relaxed, the occasional full body aftershock making him twitch slightly. The first recognizable thought is that he'd really like to drift back off to sleep, but that makes him painfully aware he is not asleep now. He feels cool air on his wet belly and realization rushes in like the return of the tide - he's sprawled across Winter Soldier 21's lap with his pants partially down, his shirt up, and his load cooling on his stomach, release that was put there by an incident that was decidedly _not_ a dream, but by a pair of very real, very not-human fingers placed somewhere they shouldn't have been. He rolls over abruptly and scrambles away as a shock wave of panic grips him, roughly yanking up his pants and holding his top out of the mess all over him.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuck!" he rants to himself, digging for a rag in their supply bags, cheeks turning pink.

"Have I not performed satisfactorily, Luis?" the Soldier questions.

"I...you...fuck...I...I just need to....I just need to..." Luis babbles, unsure of how to even begin to answer that question.

"Do you require further assistance?" Red crawls forward, sits next to him, eyeing his hands frantically pawing through things.

"I need to get cleaned up," the smaller man manages.

He lets out a shocked squeak when 21 bends down and begins licking the cum from his belly.

"Stop! Stop! What the fuck? Why would you do that?" Luis falls back on his ass, pushes himself away with his feet.

"You stated you need to get cleaned," Red says matter-of-factly. "This is the method taught to me for this situation. Please advise if you prefer a different method."

"_Taught to you by who?!_" the green-eyed man asks, incredulous.

"By my previous handlers. After I performed satisfactorily." The Soldier looks at him, unblinking, face placid.

"Performed....You mean..." He wracks his brain, trying to think of how he'd had to talk to Winter when they'd lived together, how literally he took everything, how open-ended or vague questions would confuse him. "Did your....handlers....have you...touch them...the way you touched me...when I was on your lap?" Luis carefully feels out his words, a horrifying picture forming in his head.

"Affirmative. They stated I am well-trained at these tasks."

"_Madre de dios._ Is that why...you touched me? Because other handlers would ask and you anticipated I would want that?"

"Negative. I touched you because you requested it."

"What?! But I didn - " He pauses. "Oh. Oh no! _Sometimes I talk in my sleep._ Oh fuck!" He puts the hand not clutching his shirt over his face. "Luis, you idiot!"

"Have I not performed satisfactorily?" the Soldier questions. "Have I done something to displease you? Do I require punishment?" He undoes his belt, drops his pants, turns around and gets on all fours. "Do you require an implement to hurt me with, Luis?" he asks over his large shoulder.

"Ohmygodnooo! No! You don't require punishment! **Put your pants back on!**" the green-eyed man yells.

21 complies, sitting up and covering himself, staring unblinking at Luis. There is a vague hint of anxiety in his eyes, though his expression is otherwise calm, nearly blank, like Winter had been all those months ago. "Please advise how I can serve you."

"How...how many handlers have had you touch them like you touched me?" Luis questions, terrified of the answer.

Red gets a look, the faint shadow of something that lets the smaller man know he's considering, reviewing, calculating. "Sixteen have had me touch their penis. Four have had me put my fingers in them. I am very experienced in multiple techniques for both forms of stimulation."

"_Jesus_. Did your handlers...just have you do the things you did to me or...other things?" The smaller man gives up on getting to a rag, not wanting to move within reach of the Soldier or his very slick tongue, not wanting to make one more demand of Red by asking him to find one. He pulls his shirt off to clean himself up with.

"I have performed many tasks for my handlers. Please specify." The redhead's eyes flick down over Luis' bare chest and stomach - observing him as he wipes his skin - then they return to his blushing face.

"Do you know what...sex is?" the green-eyed man asks cautiously, getting even more red.

"Sexual intercourse. Penetration of an orifice with a penis."

"Yep. That...about covers...the basics...when penises are involved. Did your handlers....have you..." How does he even ask this? What will it help to know? "Did you have sexual intercourse with them?"

"Yes. I have been penetrated on multiple occasions."

"_That's awful that someone did that to you,_" Luis barely manages.

"I am a faggot. Faggots are designed for that use," Red says without a hint of emotion.

The smaller man shudders, shocked. "Did a handler say that to you?"

"Affirmative."

The smaller man had more than one guy say something similar to him since he was on the road - that he was a pretty boy and that must make him gay, must mean he's cock hungry - but he'd been lucky enough to escape relatively unscathed. There were only a few minor gropings to occasionally haunt him. When it happened in Crossbones temporary camp, after the settlement was overrun, one of the three-stripes spoke up and got the guy fondling him to go away; he was pretty sure his savior thought he was buying favor with Luis and wanted him for himself. Before the man could talk to whoever it was he needed permission from to have the younger man, Luis was pushed into the trucks with the rest of the survivors by a different commander to go to the reavertown. 

Maybe the slur was just something the handlers said to justify their actions, not that someone absolutely loving (consensual) cock in any way made that behavior okay, but it was also possible they knew things about the person he was before the procedure, that they were aware whoever he had been was homosexual. There were still queerphobes in the world before the collapse, but he can only imagine what it was like eighty something years ago under that turd Reagan he'd read about in school - it was likely his original handlers from that era would have been quite biased.

"God, all the things you've probably seen and heard. How different everything is now than when you were alive. I mean...even besides the whole plague thing," he whispers.

"I am currently alive," Red responds, surprising Luis.

"Yes, you are. Sorry. I didn't mean it that way." The smaller man offers a little smile and the Soldier just stares back, mild confusion in his copper eyes. 

"I'm sorry that I made you do those things to me," he nearly whispers, looking down.

"My performance was unsatisfactory? Was your orgasm not strong enough? Would you like another?"

"Uhhhhh no, no, I'm...No. You didn't do anything wrong. You....performed...as asked...satisfactorily." Luis can't believe he's even saying this, but the Soldier seems to get mildly distressed each time he wants reassurance he's done his task properly. "It's just...I didn't mean to ask you for those things. I was dreaming."

"I do not know that word," Red offers.

"Seeing...pictures in your mind, feeling things that aren't real....while you're sleeping. Have you...had that happen?" The smaller man is honestly curious - what does a Winter Soldier dream about?

"I have experienced this phenomenon."

"So, I thought I was talking to the person in the dream - Clint."

Luis pauses, can't help but notice other than the obvious differences and Red being probably 6'4" he reminds him of the archer - ripped, square jawed, broad chest with a bit of hair in the middle (Buck had never told 21 to put his vest back on, so he hadn't). Like Clint, there's nothing even vaguely feminine about him. The comparison between Red and the archer makes the young man uncomfortable, especially given recent events.

"But sometimes I talk out loud while I'm dreaming, while I'm asleep, so you heard me and thought I was talking to you. It was an accident, a mistake, and I want you to never tell anyone what happened, okay? Because they might get upset at both of us."

"Understood. I will not discuss stroking you or bringing you to orgasm with my fingers with anyone else."

Luis swallows hard, face now practically on fire. "Okay, that's good. Do you know what the word consent means?"

"To agree to." 21's face is quite blank, as if he hadn't just mentioned fingerblasting Luis into oblivion. 

"That's right. You can't touch people sexually without their consent. I know, in this case, you thought you had my consent. So...I'm not mad at you and you didn't do anything wrong. But in the future, you always have to ask permission before you do anything like that to someone, even if you think they want you to."

"Understood."

"And people should get your consent before they touch you sexually." Luis isn't sure why he says it, but it feels necessary. 

"If you ask me for consent, to touch me, I will give it to you."

"Well, that's part of the problem, Red." The smaller man thinks hard about how to explain this, knows it's probably futile with the limiter. "You can't really give consent. You're...not really making your own choices. The limiter makes it so you have to do what I say and act according to what you think will please me. So if I asked you, and you said yes, it would be because the limiter setting makes you want to make me happy as your handler, not because you would want me to. Do you understand?" 

"Negative."

Luis sighs. "You can only make a choice about giving consent when you're totally in control of your own actions and thoughts. What is your limiter set at?"

"Eighty percent of maximum."

"Winter said you'll follow my orders. Can I turn down your limiter too?"

"Affirmative. I was told to follow your commands as I would follow his, giving you equal authority as my handler."

"Do you remember anything, from before you became a Winter Soldier?"

"Affirmative. However, I have less access to my pre-Soldier memories the higher the limiter is set."

"So, the more I lower it, the more you know about who you were before?" Luis queries.

"Affirmative."

"Turn your limiter to sixty percent."

"Confirmed." Something in Red's eyes changes - it's hard to describe, but it's like they brighten, become more aware. 

"Why didn't it work that way with Buck? He doesn't have one at all and he barely remembers anything from before. Just bits and pieces."

"Per conversations I witnessed between staff at the facility, degradation of brain matter after death caused the destruction of many of the Winter Soldiers' pre-procedure memories. I was dead the shortest period of time, ergo I maintained the most memories."

"How much would you say you remember? Thirty percent? Fifty percent?"

"It would be difficult to assess the breadth of my total memory preservation at this limiter level. I would estimate I recall less than five percent of my pre-Soldier memory with complete accuracy and another ten percent distorted or containing large gaps."

"Wow, that's a lot though. Winter is at like...two percent maybe total. If that."

"Why do you call him Winter rather than Buck like the others?" the Soldier queries. It's interesting that he can independently ask a question not directly tied to his handler's needs at this level. Still, it's informational and based on something Luis said, not exactly out of left field. 

"It's my special name for him, that I gave him before he knew his real name was Buck before he was a Soldier."

"His real name was not Buck," Red says calmly.

"What was it?" Luis leans forward, wide-eyed. 

"I...cannot access that information at this limiter level."

"Turn limiter to forty-five percent."

"Confirmed."

"What was Buck's name, before he was a Winter Soldier?" The young man is eager to discover this truth about his friend, not thinking clearly with the drugs still in his system.

"I called him Barnes. That was his surname."

"Do you remember the rest?"

"Not at this level."

"Turn limiter to thirty-five percent."

"Confirmed."

"What was his name, Red?"

"James Buchanan Barnes."

"Buchanan. Buck for short I bet." Luis grins. "That's good Red, really good."

21 leans towards the smaller man abruptly, eyes glowing deep orange. "You smell very good. I could not derive pleasure from drinking you before, with the limiter at maximum, but I recall your taste. It is excellent." He crawls towards Luis as the smaller man backs away. 

"Set limiter to forty-five percent."

"Confirmed." 21 still keeps advancing until Luis is pressed to the door of the cargo box. "I would very much like to taste you again," the bigger man says low and gravelly, eyes two bright coals in the dim.

"Set limiter to sixty percent."

"Confirmed." Red stops, sits up, eyes fading back to copper. 

"Woo! Okay. Gotta be careful there, don't we Red? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you baited me into doing that. Maybe you did. Good for you, I guess. I wouldn't want something in my head letting people boss me around. I don't know if you can understand me, but I just want you to know that I want to help you. This isn't forever, just until we're sure that you won't hurt anyone. Anyone who doesn't deserve it anyway." 

"I do not understand." 

"That's okay, buddy. That's okay." Luis sighs, runs a hand through his dark curls. "Put your vest back on." 

As the Soldier complies, Luis grabs a sweatshirt off one of the bags - it's Clint's, something he'd seen him wear a few nights at the hotel. It's still clean enough and it smells like the archer, a hint of his ever-present cologne, so he puts it on and tries not to feel like a dirty cheat. He'd agree it would just be the four of them when he'd nodded to Nat's demands at the paper factory. It wasn't exactly a legal contract or marriage vows, but he'd understood that he was not to stray outside of their foursome when he'd given the gesture. 

"Red. Where did Winter go? Where are my friends?"


	83. The plot thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang discusses their options or lack thereof.

Steve's face is almost placid as he puts the sack of weapons in the back of the Claptrappers' truck. There's not a single thing in it that he can use given they're Soldier weapons, so there's no point in taking it. He climbs in the cargo box, pulls a key from his pocket and sets Jasper loose. After a second's consideration, he frees Monet as well. 

"Congratulations. You've been pardoned," he says wryly as he walks to the storage box at the front of the cargo trailer, unlocks that too and tosses Sitwell his massive rifle and supply bag. 

"What the hell happened down there?" the bespectacled man queries. 

"Sorry, Jasper, but I have places to be," the blonde informs him, digging through his own bag for what remains of his ammunition. 

"Stevie, buddy, think about this," Clint starts, tossing his own burden into the back of the cargo box. "You can't -"

The mechanic cuts him off with a look, then adds a bottle of lighter fluid and two road flares to his pockets, checks his jacket for Jack's Zippo - when he shakes it, it's nearly full. 

"Did you know him too?" he demands of Jasper as he stands. "Rumlow?" 

Sitwell's eyes flick to Natasha as she approaches. She tilts her head and shrugs lightly, as if to say _ cat's out of the fucking bag_.

"Yes. I worked with him on several missions. He ran an Operations strike team." Sitwell checks his rifle, finds it still loaded and shoulders it. 

Steve smooshes his lips into an exaggerated frown and nods hard. "So you _all_ knew him. Nat, Nick, you, Phil, Maria. Why'd you keep it from me?" 

Jasper sighs. "Fury thought... Well he thought you'd never trust us, after all the time you spent with Rumlow and his crew, if you knew we knew him, worked with him. He told Nat he thought it would make it hard for you to acclimate. She didn't know about the Soldier program. Neither do the other ex-ops back at Claptrap." 

"I thought I was protecting you," Nat offers from the ground outside the truck. "Making it easier for you to settle in, to move on."

"_Move on,_" Steve practically hisses, head whipping in her direction, then offers a mirthless laugh. 

"The group that went out to hunt Rumlow - when they found you - almost all thought he was just another ex ops turned warlord, but Fury knew that Brock was looking for the Soldiers, saw an opportunity to stop him and to get what information his crew had," Sitwell continues.

"And by _get information_ you mean capture and torture his people," Steve states. 

Jasper nods, brows crinkling. "We didn't know Brock had already found the Soldiers, just couldn't use them. When Fury followed Brock's truck tracks from the explosion site and you had the truck, were all beat up, he put two and two together so he just played dumb when you told him Rumlow's name and the rest."

"I already wondered why he followed my tracks instead of one of the other vehicles. He knew the truck."

"Yeah. It was issued to Brock for his last mission before the collapse. Those of us who knew about the project thought you might have information about the location of the Soldiers since you spent so much time with him. It was obvious you weren't someone who would break under... interrogation...and Fury thought eventually you'd talk on your own, if you felt safe."

"Felt safe." The mechanic chuckles through the words, but there's no humor in them. He lets out a long sigh. "I had...a little bit of time that I did at least, with Buck. Now I..." He trails off, eyes seeing but looking at nothing for a moment before he steels his expression. "So Fury knows where we are, what we came to do?" 

"Yeah he knows," Sitwell barely breathes out, looking at his feet. 

"And that's why you're really here, with your little device. Protocol Zero. That's why Hill knew exactly what to do to get into the systems. Phil probably knew too. Nick sent all his most trusted people to get the job done."

"I reconsidered going through with it...on the road," the bald man insists. "Even though I hate that you're with **him** and even though I think the world is better off without the Soldiers, I...didn't want to hurt you, Steven. I thought as long as I was point on the device, if Hill and Coulson believed I was still willing to push the button, I could...figure it out when we got there. What was best. That's why I started to tell you before, not to trust Hill, but Romanov punched me out."

He turns to eye her. She shrugs again. 

"I knew if anyone would push that button, it would be Hill. She has icewater in her veins. When I woke up tied up...I...I didn't know what to do. I was afraid if I told you Nick's plan, Buck would kill Coulson and Hill. I couldn't trade their lives for the Soldiers'. I'm sorry." 

Steve stares at him for a minute then laughs, loud and long, his deep voice echoing off the metal walls. "I do love irony, Jasper. Since they're both dead, and neither one of them ever had any intention of initiating the Protocol, this is just hilarious." He jumps down out of the cargo box.

"Hill is...?" Sitwell comes to the edge. "She didn't run the protocol?"

Steve clears his throat, tilts his head abruptly to the left. Jasper leans out of the truck to see the two female Soldiers standing stock still waiting for further instruction from Buck. 

"Jesus Christ!" he barks.

"She wanted them for herself. That didn't end so well for her. Did you know about Crossbones?" the blonde asks. 

"You mean the plot with Phil? I already told you I didn't -" 

"_Did you know that Rumlow is Crossbones?_ Does Nick know?" the mechanic asks, voice cold and even.

"What? That's - " Sitwell stops, looks like his head is going to burst. "**You** killed Rumlow! That's what you told Fury." 

Steve just nods. "He's not as dead as I would have hoped, Jasper. Tell Nick I said... I said thanks for the job and the house and the chance to be a normal person for a little while. And tell him...Tell him _fuck you._ For me." 

Greta is leaned against the cage truck, smoking a joint. The blonde turns to her. "I'm gonna need the keys. Or I can hotwire it. Your choice." He turns back to Monet. "And I'm gonna need you to draw me a map." 

"Am I hearin' this straight? You think that fuck who held you hostage is still alive and he's the big bad we're up against? Are you sure, boy?" the older woman queries. 

"The Valkyrie fought him...Crossbones. She fought him as Rumlow too. She has footage...of both. I'm sure," he says evenly. 

"Ahh," she says calmly. "You need a driver? _I've got grenades_." She grins.

"This is nuts even for you! Stevie, you saw him in that video same as me. He's enhanced. **And he has a fucking army!**" Clint practically screams.

"But he doesn't know what we know. Now's the time to go for him. When he has no idea we're coming. I could maybe drive right in with this truck. Especially if Jasper has the drone meet back up with our route, makes them think the truck is back on course." He looks to the ex-ops. 

"Think you can do that?" Greta asks. "Drive your little doohickey for us? Watch us from the sky once we meet up and follow?" 

Jasper looks at his feet, contemplating, then back up at her. "I could do you one better. I'll go. Then you can have my rifle to watch your back too." 

"Oh this is just insane!" the archer yells. "Of all the people to encourage this suicide mission, the two of you -" 

"Steve's gonna go anyway. Even if we hog tie him, he'll find a way. Isn't that right, kiddo?" the old woman asks. 

The mechanic looks to Clint, tears in his eyes, his calm facade broken. His voice shakes when he speaks. "_I have to kill him_."

"You don't even know if that's possible!" the older man yells, grabbing the blonde roughly by his shoulders. "Even if it is, one skinny kid with a fucking hunting rifle, a high old lady and a lovesick pencil pusher aren't going to get the job done. There's a thousand holes in this plan. For starters, why would the truck veer a hundred miles off course and then suddenly come back. For second, they'll see it's not their people driving."

"If **I** was driving, with just Steve in the front with me, tied up, they'd let us in," Monet offers. "He still thinks you're all dead, Steve is a hostage, but the truck with Buck in the cage is out there in the wind. He'll have people looking for it. So...after we meet up with the drone, we get the tracking device, put it back on the truck, send the drone off to his camp to see what's up. Then I radio in on the transponder you had that _fucking pig_ call him on. I say we got attacked by marauders, Vullo sent me off with blondie and the Soldier in the box. Then we drive right in. Maybe even get a private audience with him." 

"That's actually smart, new kid," Nat offers.

"Oh fucking come on! How do we know she's not a plant?" Clint asks. "She's talking about driving Steve to Brock Fucking Crossbones Rumlow tied up and alone." 

"Not alone. The others could hide in the cage," Monet insists. 

"And how do they get out exactly?" the archer leans over her, face red with anger. "Shit, you'll get an extra stripe for sure you hand them over." He flicks the white one on her shoulder.

"Crossbones killed my family! Enslaved my sisters! Let that piece of trash have me as his personal play thing!! I have just as much skin in the game as Steve. I want to see him on fire just as bad!" the girl yells right back at him.

"It is a good plan, Monet," the Valkyrie offers calmly from behind them. "It will take, as Clint said, more than three people and yourself. I will go. And we will take the Soldiers."

"Buck will never - " Clint starts.

"I have all the information from the computer system. I have their words. We do not need Buck. If we leave quickly, he cannot stop us. We can launch a surprise attack, destabilize Crossbones' army, end Rumlow." Val looks to the mechanic who nods. 

Monet perks up. "The slaves! They're not trained soldiers and a lot of them will run once they're free, but some will stay and fight if we arm them. _Payback is a bitch._"

"We can't do this. This is nuts. Even if a Soldier and a Valkyrie are worth twenty, forty even of us a piece, he has **five hundred** men." The archer sounds desparate now, shaking his head. 

"No, he has five hundred minus how many ever are out on runs or on search parties or watching other settlements. He could have a few hundred out of base," Monet comments excitedly.

"If we don't do this," Nat says calmly to Clint, putting a hand on his arm, "there's no place he won't hunt Steve too. He'll march that army right up to Claptrap once he realizes what's happened and you know it. Even if Steve isn't there, he'll kill every last one of them to try to get him and Buck, to get the serum. You saw what a fucking monstrosity he is. I know Rumlow - he's vain. He probably thinks one of the serums will fix him, fix his fucked up face. I'm... I'm going to go with them." 

"And if he catches Steve and Buck at his camp?" Win asks, leaned up against the side of the cargo box from where she's been silently taking everything in, chewing on the end of a strand of dry grass like a cowboy in a Western. 

"Buck doesn't need to be involved," Steve insists.

She rolls her eyes. "Ha! I'll bring him, after you're gone a bit. Can buy you a half hour maybe before he figures it out. We'll follow, park the truck a few miles out from the Xers camp. Let Buck join you with the other Soldier after the fun has started. You can head back to the truck after, make a quick getaway if needed." 

"We'd stand a much better chance with four Soldiers instead of two," Greta says to Steve. "You know Buck'll figure out where you went eventually and fucking run there on foot if he has to."

"Okay, okay," Steve says as much to himself as anyone else. "Clint. You're the only one not on board, buddy. I could really use you up somewhere high shooting arrows into people for me."

"Fuck!" Clint runs his big hands over his face and through his spiky hair. "Fine. Fine. Cecelia's in a bad way though. I need to get my back up." 

The archer climbs into the cargo trailer, gets his spare bow and all his arrows from the storage box in the front. He pauses in his exit to kneel down next to Luis' unconscious body, run his thick fingers through the dark curls. 

"You're so fucking smart. What did you ever see in a lug like me?" the older man whispers, then bends to put a soft kiss on his forehead. 

Win, now watching from the back, promises to take care of him as the archer steps down. She hesitates a bit before hugging Clint and then kissing Nat full on the lips. "Be safe," she tells them. 

She hugs Greta, then stands in front of Steve for a long minute, eyes uncharacteristically misty.

"Fucking come back," she orders him before they fall on each other, arms in a death grip. She kisses his cheek, whispers in his ear, "my name is Jiaying." 

He nods vigorously, eyes filling with tears. She turns quickly and walks away.


	84. The best laid plans of mechanics and men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang tries to infiltrate Crossbones' camp.

"Fuck!" the Xer at the gate exclaims, peeking into the small window of the giant metal cell. 

There's a tiny sliding plate in the door, opening a hole not even big enough to fit a hand through. In the darkness within the box, she can see a gray, snarling face. The woman, marked with the tell-tale X across her chest and one stripe on her shoulder, slides it quickly shut. 

"It's actually in there!" she calls to the others on guard excitedly. "Crossbones will be so pleased. To his glory!" 

She raises her arms in the X and several of the other one-stripes follow suit. The two-stripe in charge at the gate, an ex-ops with a massive weapon, waves a hand at her as she grabs her walkie. 

"Wait. I'll deliver it and the kid personally," he barks. 

He strolls to the driver's side door of the cab, eyes Monet in the driver seat. The young woman recognizes the massive blonde bear of a man - despite being old enough to be her father, he'd clearly had his eye on her before she was gifted to Vullo. 

"Creed, can I...at least tag along. If Vullo doesn't make it back, I could use some juice with the man. Please." 

Monet makes her best cute, defenseless female face at him. He sighs, scratches idly at one thick sideburn. 

"Fine. But not a word in front of him unless spoken to. Understood?" 

"Of course! Anything you say!" 

She smiles beatifically, slides to the center of the bench seat next to Steve, who's slumped against the passenger side door. Creed reaches over, grabs the wire wrapped around his skinny wrists to make sure it's secure, then grabs the petite blonde by the hair and pulls hard. When the mechanic doesn't react, the bigger man releases him, letting his head thunk hard off the window. 

"Hmmm. Must have really wailed on him. He better wake up or the man will be pissed. I never pegged Vullo for the self-sacrifice type. You say marauders chased you, boxed in your caravan?" 

"I was so scared when he had me get in the driver's seat! But," she sniffles dramatically, "he told me to just keep going, that it was his responsibility to stay and lead the others as the one in charge. They managed to bust a hole through the blockade for me, and I made it out. I'm so worried. I haven't heard anything!"

"Don't you fret, darling. If he doesn't make it back, I'll take care of you." He grins, bringing the truck to a halt to wait for foot traffic across one of the busy small streets leading to the center of the town they've commandered. 

"I hope the man isn't too upset that I drove so far in the wrong direction. Everything just happened so fast and I got turned around." Monet manages to squirt a few tears, wipes one dramatically. 

"You better stow that or the man'll give you something to cry about."

"I'm sorry!" she sobs. "Can we...can we just pull over a minute so I can get it together. I really want to make a good impression." 

Creed chews his lip, stares into her big, dark brown, misty eyes, and grunts. He pulls off into a little side alley, empty save an overflowing dumpster. 

"You know, I could help you relax," he grins, putting a hand on her thigh. 

"Oh, Creed. I... I'm flattered. I never realized you liked me...but...but Vullo. We couldn't." Monet makes an innocent but disappointed face. "He's been so good to me." 

"I could be even better to you, darling. And if he shows back up, he never has to know. Come on. You want me to put in a good word for the man, right?" He grins, fingers slipping higher. 

"You know," the young woman says, batting her long lashes, "I always thought you were really cute for an older guy. Maybe...maybe just a little kiss." 

She puckers up, leans forward with her head tilted back, eyes almost but not quite closing - the huge man follows suit. The second she notices his lids fully shut, her right arm swings up and buries a jackknife in his neck. He slams back against the window, grabbing at the blade with one giant hand as he smashes the heel of his other into her face hard. Steve is already moving, leaning over her as she hunches down grabbing her bloody nose, to throw himself towards the huge man. His bound-together hands wrap around the jackknife and pull it towards the center of Creed's neck, blood spraying everywhere.

"Jack Rollins sends his regards, fuckwad."

The mechanic gives him a cold smile as he pulls the knife from Creed's throat, and displays it to him. The gift from his former protector - laid by his bedroll while he slept all those years ago - had a very distinct look about it. It had felt right to give it to Monet for this very task as she'd guessed who would be running the gate. Jack had never liked the huge man; he was yet another sadistic bootlicker who worshipped the ground Rumlow walked on. It was an easy guess he'd want to take Steve and Buck to Brock himself.

When Steve leans back, taking his meager weight off Monet, she sits up and spits blood in the dead man's face.

"Ibn al kalb!" she yells at him. 

Steve had heard Taj hurl the insult many times back in Brooklyn, and can't help the little smile that blooms on his face. Every culture had it's variation on insulting you and your mama at the same time. He preferred the simplified _your mother_ himself but _hijo de puta_ also had a nice ring to it. His proper Catholic mother would say _s.o.b._ if she were really mad, spelling it out - ess oh bee. 

Monet is scrambling over the big man to get out like a shot, breaking him from his mental ramblings. They're both soaked in blood but she barely seems to notice. Moving around quickly to the cell on the back, she releases those inside, using Creed's massive weapon to lay cover as they file out of it like a clown car. They had used 22, the bigger of the female Soldiers who was also sporting fairly short hair, to pose as Buck. She'd been commanded to push herself close to the hole, blocking the view of the tiny window completely so that the Xers could not see the others standing behind her in the cell. 

Soldier 22 grabs Jasper with his huge rifle and quickly scurries up a building with him. 24 does the same with Clint and the Valkyrie follows with Nat. Monet can see the shadows on the ground as they jump from rooftop to rooftop towards Crossbones' command post - she had assured them he'll be there, orchestrating the search for the truck and the many others he has out on missions. 

Greta, dressed in Creed's hastily wiped down chest armor, and the girl head off on their own errand as Steve readjusts the big man's corpse enough that he can drive the truck. When those on the rooftops radio the mechanic's walkie that they're in position, he shoves Creed back upright behind the wheel, hides the walkie behind the seatback and slides over to the passenger side. The truck coasts to a stop right outside the designated building a few minutes later and just as sure as shit stinks, Crossbones emerges with a half-dozen guards to review his prize. 

Steve tries to school his breathing, his pulse, as he hears the driver side door open. Creed's corpse topples over to the ground and suddenly all six soldiers' guns are trained on the truck. Then he hears the noise - that familiar chuckle that could turn the bravest person's blood cold - as Crossbones surveys the corpse with amusement. Right up until this moment, some part of the blonde was still convinced that this had to be a lie, or a misunderstanding, or a coincidence. Some other person with the right build, the right looks, to resemble his own personal monster enough after whatever Zola had done to them. It couldn't really be him after all. 

But he'd know that laugh anywhere, and the visceral reaction of his body as it clenches against his will - stomach lurching - doesn't lie. 

Crossbones is Brock Rumlow without a doubt.

_You just couldn't let it go, could you? Now you're going to feed yourself to the beast, and for what?_ his rational voice speaks up. _ There's still time to run._

The passenger door creaks open and three ex-ops he recognizes from the old crew have their automatic weapons trained on him. They order him to drop the bloody jackknife he's clutching with his still-bound hands. He does and raises his arms up in front of his chest in surrender. It had to look like he did this alone, got lucky, so they couldn't untie him. 

**Fuck running. We die like a man,** the bullheaded voice grits out.

_Steven Grant Rogers. I can tolerate foolishness, but not sexism._

One of the Xers motions and orders him to get out, slowly. 

**Fine. We die like a really badass femme.**

_Better. Now, don't swallow. You always swallow when you're nervous._

Steve complies with his own voices and the ex-ops, easing out of the truck while several train their guns on him.

**Clint would say _that's what she said_. Or maybe lately, that's what _he_ said? Luis is too cute for him. Fuck, they really went at it though. Looked like some good sex. Man, we just finally got to have good sex! I'm really gonna miss good sex.**

_I'm just gonna miss Buck. What a sweetheart._

They walk Steve slowly around the front of the cab, Crossbones...

**No, fuck his stupid little codename.**

_Amen._

...the Rape Ape coming into view, standing there with his hands on his hips in that very familiar smug pose that says how disappointed he is that you've done something to fuck with him but yet how pleased he is at getting to punish you for it.

**Can we at least tell him that Buck has a bigger cock than him? Shit, that we have a bigger cock than him.**

_Really? Those are your last words? He probably doesn't even have one. It probably burnt off._

One of the soldiers pats him down, takes Jack's lighter - which he'd grabbed off the ground with a sleeve-covered hand where it lay red-hot next to Brock's smouldering body that fateful day - and a few other random things from his pockets. 

**Ooooo good one! Tell him he probably doesn't even have a dick. But not yet. Obviously.**

_For once, keep your lips sealed._

"Anything in the truck?" Rumlow asks, composite facemask still on. 

"Empty plastic bottle. Random trash. This." The ex-ops holds up the bloody pocket knife. 

Brock snorts, slides off his head covering, revealing his twisted, gray visage. One eyelid is almost completely gone, his features all mutilated. It's still obviously him though and seeing that face makes a shutter go through the mechanic. 

**Fuck me sideways like a vaseline filled piñata, he's ugly.**

_He looks like overcooked au gratin potatoes that have been sitting in the fridge for six months._

Rumlow motions to be handed the lighter and the knife. Makes a tsk tsk tsk sound with the tip of his tongue, gaze going from one to the other. 

**He looks like a pile of burnt horse manure fucked a moldy crown of cauliflower.**

_He looks like Sylvester Stallone after his last round of bad plastic surgery if he was found dead in the ocean._

"And here I thought you didn't even like Jack. I thought it was a game, a trick. Maybe you did fancy him after all." Rumlow slides the jackknife into his mouth and sucks the blade clean. "Hmmm, not too bad, Creed. Not nearly as good as I bet you taste though, Sweetie-pie." 

Brock takes a few steps towards him. Steve glowers up at him silently as the taller man runs the blade lightly over the mechanic's throat. Rumlow huffs out a soft, pleased laugh at the defiance in the blonde's eyes. 

"First things first." 

Rumlow swipes the blade over Steve's cheek and jaw, slicing a wide swath of beard from his skin. He repeats the motion several more times on other parts of his face, crudely shaving him, drawing a bit of blood. Brock's maroon eyes start to glow, progressively getting more red. He leans forward and runs his tongue over one of the small cuts, groans at the taste. The blonde stands stock-still as the bigger man eases back up. 

"You really are a sweety. God, I'm gonna enjoy you," Brock all but moans. 

The bigger man flicks the lighter open and closed, the flame flaring and then being snuffed. Click click. 

"Keeping this was very sentimental of you. Was it to remember Jack or me?"

Click click.

"I still think about it you know."

Click click. 

"Our last time together." 

Click click.

"Stupid, gullible Jack bleeding out on the ground."

Click click. 

"Dragging you off him." 

Click click.

"Your body in the moonlight against the truck." 

Click click. 

"Me inside you." 

Click click. 

"God. I was so furious. About the bomb." 

Click click.

"Thinking about you planning it all out." 

Click click.

"How much you hated me."

Click click.

"Wanted to kill me."

Click click.

"Willing to risk everything to do it." 

Click click.

"Willing to get Jack killed." 

Click click.

"I've never been so hard in my whole life. I'm surprised you could ever walk straight again." 

He grins. 

Steve drops his hands, the flare sliding out of his sleeve as he catches it, bends down with a quick motion to clutch it between his thighs and yank the cap off to light it as he stands swiftly back up. 

Nothing happens. He's holding an unlit, dud flare a foot from Brock Rumlow's face. 

The big man laughs, long and loud as every gun raises on Steve again. The blonde slowly lowers his arms.

"Sweetie-pie. How, I've missed you." 

Brock flicks the lighter again and before he can cap it, Steve leans forward and blows the mouthful of lighter fluid he's been desparately holding in over the flame, lighting up Brock's chest, neck and chin. There's a series of almost perfectly overlapping shots and all six guards fall dead.


	85. When the lights go out in the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sees black.

As the six Xers drop around him - every one with a bullet through their brain save the man sporting an arrow through his left eye socket - Steve has seconds that seem to stretch out into hours to watch the flames spread on Brock. They are a slow, beautiful roiling wave of orange, appearing more liquid than gas, flowing upwards against the gravity that would restrict water from doing so, rolling over his once sexy, thick neck with its pronounced Adam's apple, over the strong chin, over what's left of his once devilishly handsome face. 

The blonde is transfixed, and the only thing he wants in the world is to watch what's left of Brock Rumlow melt off the skull of Crossbones. Clint yells _Stevie_, pulls him from his revelry, as Brock claws at the flames on his flesh, screaming. The mechanic slams the cap against the end of the flare frantically until it sparks up and tosses it at Rumlow's pants, lighting them. It had been dumb luck the Xer leader had been flicking the lighter after the flare hadn't, well,_ flared._

The others riddle Brock's head and neck with bullets - ink-black blood spraying everywhere as Steve steps back. The Valkyrie descends, sword in hand, pulled from the folds of her robe. The mechanic wanted this moment to be just his own, but the needs of the many and all that. It will have to be enough to see the thing done, to have helped in the planning and the distraction. She had only a few rounds left in her massive weapon, not enough to totally destroy his brain, and it felt right to use the sword taken from her fallen sister to do this. 

The firing from above stops a second before Val comes into range to swing the blade into the side of his neck. She's not as strong as the Soldiers but far stronger than a human, incredibly fast and agile, and her aim - backed with processors and enhanced vision - is flawless. It buries in the side of Brock's neck at the perfect spot to sever his head from his body.

Except it doesn't. 

It strikes against his spine with a hard thud dulled by the meat around it. And suddenly Brock isn't screaming. He's laughing. Laughing like he was never really screaming at all, like it was all for show. There's a sword stuck in his neck - slicing a third of it clean through along with some of his vocal chords, and his wind pipe is gashed open - but he's _fucking laughing_ (or as close to it as he can get in his state). Parts of him are still on fire - the dramatic blood spray from his jugular having put out his face and neck - but he's laughing. 

He's laughing as he grabs the blade with one hand and the Valkyrie's throat with the other in a lightning fast movement. Laughing as he's hoisting her off the ground, using her as a shield as she kicks and batters at him with her free hand while those on the rooftops have split seconds to try to take a shot without hitting her. Laughing as Steve snatches one of the downed guard's automatic weapons and fires at him, shooting into his face and head. 

Up close the blonde can hear his rounds making smaller versions of the dull thud Val's sword had made against Brock's spine. The bullets destroy the flesh of his face and scalp but they don't penetrate his skull. His twisted visage grows back nearly as fast as Steve can destroy it. 

Rumlow hurtles her into Steve. The crew above are already firing into him as he grabs the hilt of the sword, but it's too late. He yanks it free and swings it in a wide arc. It cuts Val just above the hips and her dark bluish blood fans across the dirt. For a moment the mechanic thinks she's not wounded too badly because she's still partially upright in front of him, arms out protectively. 

Then he feels something warm on his belly. The shooting seems to quiet, his own pulse getting loud as he pulls up his shirt. There's a quarter inch deep gouge across Steve's abdomen. 

_But how...?_

The Valkyrie's top half slides off her bottom half and for a brief second he's looking into the cross section of her body - organs, silver filaments, other small metallic things he cannot identify. Her blood goes everywhere as her legs give out and her lower portion slumps to the ground. 

Brock leans back and let's out an incredibly loud, rabid screeching sound that echoes through the town. The others are still firing but it's no use. Nothing does more than surface damage as Steve scrambles backwards away from him. 22 and 24 drop down from above and go at Rumlow with blades drawn as he advances on Steve. Clint puts an arrow in one of Brock's eyes as Jasper snipes out the other. 

The female Soldiers attack from both sides, 24 wrenching the sword from his hand as 22 flies at him, wrapping her legs around his waist and grabbing his head. She starts to pull, attempting to literally tear it off as 24 chops off one of his arms at the elbow. Rumlow buries his fingers in 22's eyes but her limiter is at nearly maximum and she barely registers the pain, just keeps pulling until his neck skin starts to tear. He kicks the sword from 24 and before she can retrieve it _something_ rushes in and throws her into a building.

As if this weren't already one of the worst days of Steve's life, the putrid gray-green manshaped thing stands fully up and turns to gaze at him with dead black eyes. The blonde's heart and stomach and breath all seize and for a minute there's nothing but white noise as he traces the all too familiar scar patterns on the big man's face. 

"Jack," Steve whispers in horrified recognition. 

The thing takes no notice, just advances on 24 and grapples with her, her pale pink irises now glowing fuschia. Another creature runs in and grabs onto 22 - it's the same dirty swamp water color as the Jack-thing and Steve recognizes it as one of Brock's other generals he had seen dead after the suitcase bombing. Moments later a flood of dozens of one-stripes run in, ranting, foaming and screaming. _Drinkers_ who had heeded their master's call. Many throw themselves on the Soldiers, others running at the mechanic as he scrambles to grab another dead guard's weapon. 

Those above are firing bullets and arrows into the crowd one after the other, getting repeated kill shots, but it isn't enough. There's too many. They descend on Steve like a wave - even as he fires wildly into the crowd they make no attempt to kill him, a dozen hands grabbing at him, at the gun, pulling it away and yanking him to the ground. 22 and 24 have dozens of drinkers hanging on them. They're both slashing and biting and kicking, 22 getting the sword back and cutting the head off the general-thing. She stomps his skull to paste when it rolls against her boot. 

Brock, now unburdened, pulls the arrow from his socket and tosses it, picks his severed forearm up and presses it to the stump of his remaining limb. The two pieces join together in seconds and he motions to the Jack-thing, who leaves 24 to the pile of drinkers she's wrestling with. They wade through the crowd towards the blonde, his subjects bowing to Crossbones as he passes. He places his hands on some of their heads and they murmur words of praise before scampering off to climb the fire escapes and brick work of the buildings the other Claptrappers are on. 

Steve's face twists as the gray creatures stop in front of him. There are several drinkers wrapped around each of his limbs and trunk, holding him upright but immobile. For a minute he forgets all about Brock Fucking Rumlow and can only look at the other man/thing as it's blank shark eyes linger on him. 

"Jack! Jack! Please! It's me! Jack!" 

Tears spill down the blonde's cheeks and he finally says the thing he never admitted even once to himself. 

"I love you, Jack." He sobs. "Please. Answer me. Jack. _What did they do to you?_" 

"The Doctor cooked up a few batches. I got the good stuff. Or maybe it just worked better because I was still alive. Barely. Jackie boy here was DOA. Martins too," Rumlow says, head jerking in the direction the other man/thing had went down, where 22 is vigorously slashing at a hoard of drinkers. "They're brainless animals. But they recognize me as their sort of...pack leader. They're bound to me. And they're useful. They have muscle memory, but not much else. Sweet old Jack isn't in there anymore."

Steve turns to Brock with sudden fury, eyes bulging as he struggles even harder against the people offering him with silent reverence to their personal god. 

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!!! I'll still fucking kill you! I'll still fucking kill you!" 

"It was a good plan, Sweetie-pie. Would have worked too if I was made like your boyfriend, _Buck_. But I'm...something different." 

"You're a cockless pile of mildewed dryer lint that I'm gonna watch burn!" the blonde spits. 

The cocky expression flickers briefly on Rumlow's face. 

_Told you._

**Totally badass, Rogers.**

"My skeleton is hard. Like granite." 

"Not your joints though. She cut you off at the elbow," Steve offers quickly. "Which means your discs in your spine are probably soft enough." 

"Expecting one of the Soldiers to hear you? You always were so clever. Right, Jack? Isn't that what you used to say? How clever he was? Jack, tell him he's clever. Say, _Stevie, you're clever._"

"Sssstteev...eeee....Yooorr...clev...errr," the Jack-thing manages. 

It's both enough his voice and enough not his voice to make Steve's tears start fresh. 

"He was your friend. Your best friend," the mechanic says softly. "How could you?"

"He was. Until you got your hooks into him. What did you say to him? What kind of freaky sex shit did you do to him when I wasn't around to turn him?" Brock reaches over and pinches Steve's cheek, gives it a hard shake that makes the clotted cut there bleed anew.

"We never touched like that. Not even once because I never said we could. He was a good person." 

"He was a _fucking murderer_, same as me. I watched his firebombs burn children alive overseas. His magnetized explosives stuck to the other Valkyrie and blew them to pieces. You didn't know him. You only knew the him he pretended to be to impress you. But why? Why did he give a shit about impressing you in the first place?" 

"Must be my sparkling personality and how good I am at giving compliments." Steve sniffs hard, swallows his snot and wills his tears to stop. "For instance, you look like a life-sized man replica made out of cat litter that hasn't been scooped in a year. _Except they forgot to add the dick_." 

Brock huffs a small laugh. "Take him," he instructs the Jack thing. 

It complies, pulling him from the drinkers. Brock gives them a cursory wave and they run at the Soldiers, now coated in blood and entrenched in piles of corpses. Steve sees 22 on fire, but still fighting. She rips a body in half over head, putting herself out with the torrent of their blood. 24 isn't faring as well - she's fully engulfed, her body clearly starting to shut down. The mechanic is abruptly turned away from the carnage and the Jack-thing carries him as he shoves and flails at him/it, Rumlow walking alongside. 

They turn into an alley, free from the fighting, empty. Brock juts his chin and the Jack-thing presses Steve's back to his/its nearly ice cold chest, one long arm wrapped tight around the petite man, pinning the mechanic's own to his sides. He/it smells rotten and the blonde can feel only the faintest heartbeat.

"I don't need a cock anymore, Sweetie-pie, to push myself inside you. I can enter you in a totally different way. Be with you forever and always." 

"You gonna feed me your blood? Try to make me one of your idiot lackies? Good luck with that," Steve sneers. 

"It only works that way on the willing. Those who want me in their head, in their soul, who make room for me there, accept me. What it does to the unwilling. Well...that's something else." 

Of all the horrifying smiles Brock has ever flashed the mechanic, this is the worst one. It isn't the gruesome shape of his long, jagged teeth or the bright red of his irises. The absolute confidence there that he's won is palpable. Steve's stomach lurches. 

Rumlow nods at the Jack-thing again as he bites a chunk from his hand. It grabs the blonde's hair hard, tilts his head painfully back and holds it still. Brock grips the smaller man's face and squeezes, forcing his lips open. Rumlow holds his wound open with two fingers, curling them around into the damaged meat, and pours a thick trickle of his black blood into Steve's mouth. 

At first the mechanic spits and sputters and forces it out with his tongue, but eventually there's too much. It fills his mouth, runs down his face into his clothes, clogs his throat until he can't breath. Brock shoves Steve's mouth shut with one hand and plugs his nose with the other, forcing his head back even farther. Steve turns red, ready to suffocate before he'll swallow, but as his vision grays out his body's reflexes betray him. 

"Good boy!" Brock whispers, slowly releasing his face to twist his fingers into his hair, pushing the Jack-thing's aside. 

Rumlow watches him gag and cough, the blonde desparately trying to make himself throw up. 

"Just think about it, Sweetie-pie. You'll have the rest of your life to fight me in there." Rumlow nudges his temple. "To fight me and lose. Again and again. While I keep your body alive out here, use it to trap your little Soldier boy, get him to open the crate. Then I'll kill it and let my men do whatever they want with your shell." 

"He. Won't. Surrender. He. Promised," Steve manages. 

"We'll see about that." He yanks the smaller man's head to the side. "Any last words, while you're still in charge of that big fucking mouth?" 

"Your. Mother." 

Brock buries his teeth in Steve's neck and everything goes black.


	86. Thelma and Louise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greta and Monet move towards their destination.
> 
> ***I topped 4,000 hits!! Thank you all so much. I never thought anyone but me would care about my weird mostly-head-canon tale and I'm so grateful for everyone who has checked it out!***

After breaking from the others at the cage truck, Monet and Greta head to the three-stripes' quarters, an apartment complex on the west side of downtown. Crossbones' army is so big at this point, no one realizes that the survivalist - clad in her stolen X marked armor - is not one of them. The older woman has to silently do away with several guards using her hunting knife once they reach their first destination, but there's no other Xers in the building. They free slave after slave with several pairs of bolt cutters brought from the Claptrappers' truck - most of the captives are on long metal leads welded to mounts in the concrete walls within each unit, one end padlocked around their necks or waists. The women don't know how similar it is to the contraption that Steve had been rigged to Brock's truck with. 

There's over twenty people there - the three-stripes are the only ones who officially get human prizes, and some have two, but plenty of the two-stripes, like Vullo, have "arranged marriages." Those people will be harder to find, to know from the other Xers, and they realize there may not be much to do for them at this juncture. None of the freed are Monet's sisters - the man kept prisoner in the neighboring apartment from where she expects them to be tells her that the girls were taken by The Doctor after their owner did not return from her latest mission. Like the Nazis before him, he has a fascination with twins and has already snatched up almost all the others within the Xer community for his experiments.

The young woman leads the freed and Greta through back alleys to a holding area where other enslaved who work food service, clean latrines and collect garbage are kept. They kill the few on guard duty then, with the escapees, head off to the brothel to do the same. It's slow this early in the day, but there's still a few scumbags humping away when they charge in after dispatching the guards. There are now fifty-three released in total - while a few take their chances and head off alone, the rest armed themselves with whatever implements they can find in sanitation and the kitchen, along with the downed guards' weapons. Several go to find transportation while the rest head to their final destination - the armory. 

They've barely regrouped in a hidden area on the north side of the building before the sound of gunfire rings out in the distance. It's just a few shots nearly layered on top of each other at first, but it devolves into what sounds like all out war quickly. Then they hear a bloodcurdling, animalistic scream that makes every former slave shudder in recognition and the guards at the armory stand to attention. Several of the one-stripes there run off and it would be a small blessing except the remaining are now on high alert. 

"Jig is up, kiddo," Greta says to Monet. "Best go find your sisters while there's still time. I'll sort this out." The older woman tosses the girl a grenade. "Blow that fucker sky high when you're done. For your new big brother. You know the meetup, right? If we get separated." 

"I remember!" the young woman insists.

She takes a few others who are well known to her from her days before "marriage" to Vullo and takes off. The others run at the armory guards, Greta leading the charge, the element of surprise still not totally lost. Several are gunned down and the old woman takes fire, but she helps finish the other Xers and assures the escaped helping her that's she's good. They start cleaning out the armory as several supply trucks pull up, driven by their compatriots, and begin loading up the weapons and ammunition. When they've taken as much as they can fit with the non-perishables already stacked inside and the freed still able to fit as well, Greta reminds the drivers again of the rendevous and sends them off. 

The survivalist barricades herself inside the armory, chaining the doors from the inside, just as more Xers show up to retake it. She piles crates full of god knows what against them as those on the other side try to smash their way in, and peeks through a tiny leaded glass window to survey the area. There's twenty hostiles outside at least now and that's just the ones she can see. There's still so much here, too much to let Crossbones keep, and it isn't the Xers sole weapons repository. She just needs to hold out a little longer. 

Greta sits down, digs in her pockets for her lighter and a joint. Her hand falls on something flat and square with pointy corners. When she pulls it out her face falls, then breaks into a grin. It's the photo of her and Phil that Steve had picked up after she'd tossed it - he must have slipped it on her. 

"Fucking quick fingered little shit," she smiles. 

She finds the joint, sparks it, sits gazing at the snapshot while the people outside promise and threaten and batter at the door. Greta knows if Steve was out there, one of them, he'd just tell the others to take the hinges off. Lucky the clever little bastard was on her side. And he always had been. She'd taken a liking to him right away - to his quick mouth and even quicker fists, to his sharp wit, his intelligent observations, his seeming lack of fear when faced with people much bigger than him or with arguments it seemed he couldn't possibly win. He was her undisputed favorite kid, though Win had come in a very close second once the welder joined the community. 

The old woman had known she was a gruff, surly, cantankerous pain in the ass for many years now and was proud of it, proud she wasn't the withering doormat she'd been for so much of her younger life. She had no tolerance for social niceties, so-called feminine virtue, ass kissers, bullies, cowards or a whole variety of other things. But her Claptrap kids had always tolerated her, involved her in their activities despite her age and constant snark, and she'd be lying to say her time with them wasn't the best of her life. They had shown her genuine attention and affection that was not based on getting anything out of her - though of course she had spent a good amount of time making them less _useless,_ pumping them full of every skill she had learned before and after her time alone in the wilderness - and it was a harsh but not unsettling realization that she was closer to them than she'd ever been to her own children. 

She looks at Phil's smiling face and tokes and waits. 

Monet and a half dozen others fight there way through increasingly crowded streets to the small veterinary clinic The Doctor used as his lab. They're down a person by the time they reach the doors, down another when they finally breach them. The building only has a little lobby, five small exam rooms, a few tiny offices and an open area in the back where all the equipment and kennels were set up. They methodically check the front rooms first - other than piles of supplies and some dusty electronics they yield nothing. Bursting through into the rear they take heavy fire and another of her compatriots goes down but not before they and Monet manage to take out all but two of Zola's guards. 

He's crouched down behind his desk, papers flying as bullets tear through everything near him. When the shooting stops he and Monet are all that's left. She orders Zola from his hiding place with Creed's giant weapon trained on his pinched little face and walks him to the cages. They are filled with people - or things that once were - that are different shades of gray or hues of red. Their bodies are twisted, eyes lifeless despite their forms still moving. 

"Open the doors!" she demands, training the huge gun on him. 

"They're quite mindless," Zola insists. "Quite feral." He sticks a hand in one's cage quickly and it darts forward, jaws snapping on the air where his fingers were a second before. "I wouldn't want them to eat you up, my dear." 

"Why aren't they like Crossbones?" 

"Different formulations. My materials are so hard to come by after all. And so many variables in the human body. Blood type. Genetic abnormalities. Brain chemistry." His voice is self-assured, condescending, like an arrogant college professor giving a lecture. "Very difficult to get a one size fits all when it comes to these things. Besides, I wasn't trying to make another thing like him. He wouldn't want that, now would he? _We_ wouldn't that. And the red ones? Well, I was trying something...new." 

She gestures him away from the cages with the gun barrel. "No, not new. They told me about the serums. That's what Crossbones wants. Or maybe what you made him think he wants." She eyes a bright crimson vial in a small glassfront cabinet on the counter - it has a syringe on one end, ready for use. "You're trying to recreate what's in the crate." 

His eyes flare. "What do you know about my work?" 

"I know that the gray ones in the cages are some kind of bastardized version of the Winter Soldier serum. Crossbones too. But you don't have all the other bells and whistles to do gene editing and whatnot I'm guessing. So they're the bootleg edition. And this shit," she opens the cabinet, grabs the red vial, still training the gun on him with her other arm, "is the ratchet version of the red one in the crate."

"Careful with that!" he snaps.

"But I don't see any blue. Must be that formula was just out of your league all on your own. Maybe some of your peers actually cooked that one up and you just took the credit. That's what you want, right? You're not looking so good after all, doc." 

Zola's expression isn't smug after that, just blatantly furious. 

"They were all my ideas, my work, my brilliance! I had assistance, yes, but more importantly adequate equipment and resources! I wasn't trapped in this hovel begging for scraps. Is there something you actually want? Or did Nick Fury just send you to rob me?" 

"Of course you don't recognize me. Too busy with your little experiments to get out much. I was actually on your side until pretty recently, though not by choice. Now," she holds the red vial over the sink, "Unless you'd like me to smash this and wash it down the drain, you're going to tell me where my sisters are?" 

"What makes you think I can't just make another? And another and another?" 

"_Your materials are so hard to come by after all, since you're in this hovel begging for scraps_," she mocks him, throwing his words back in his face. "Twin girls. 14 years old. They'd remind you of me, except smaller and far more irritating." 

"I did select some like that, earlier, but I was told they were already promised to someone else if their owner was eliminated." The doctor's eyes twitch to the side minutely, towards a tarp covered work table. "They never came here." 

Monet stares hard at him. Zola looks different than before, more nervous. Realization dawns on her face, her lips quivering.

"What's on the table?" she asks in barely a whisper. 

"Dead soldiers, for my experiments," he says evenly enough.

"**What's on the fucking table?!**" she screams. 

"I told you -" he starts calmly, but she cuts him off by pushing the gun barrel to his forehead. 

"Show me!" 

The doctor steps to the side, pulls the tarp back with a shaking hand. There are two lifeless forms beneath. The first is a pale shade of red, flesh bubbled everywhere with odd hard patches, eyes black and shiny, dark blood at the corners of its mouth and coming from its nose and ears. The second is deep crimson, almost their entire body covered in something that looks like bark. Some of their fingers are elongated and there's foam bubbled from its lips and eyes. It's clear both parties died screaming in agony. 

They're her sisters. 

Monet screeches, a formless, broken sound that's almost as inhuman as the one she'd heard Crossbones make earlier. Zola rushes her, tries to grab the gun away. They wrestle for it, tumble and roll. It goes off and he jerks back, a chunk of his side missing, blood spreading on his lab coat. The doctor scurries away, wailing and holding himself, as she gets both hands on the gun, points it at his face and pulls the trigger. 

_Click._

Empty.

Zola staggers to his feet as Monet notices the sharp pain in her abdomen. The syringe is buried in her and the vial is empty. She drags herself up, dropping the huge and now useless weapon, and yanks the needle out as Zola watches with fascination. Monet's skin looks and feels like it's burning, the injection site a white hot pulsing flare of agony. 

"I got so close with your second sister, tweaked the formula after the first one," the doctor says with awe. "This one, my dear. I think this one is nearly perfect." 

Xer soldiers burst in, train their weapons on the shrieking girl. 

"Sir, there's been an attack. We need to move you to safety." Two of them grip his arms.

"No, no, wait! I need to see! Wait!" Zola insists as they start to drag him off.

"You'll pay your penance! You'll pay your penance!" Monet screams as he's hauled out the door.

"Holy shit!" one of the Xers exclaim. 

Her skin is turning from red to crimson, growing stiff and hard, her fingers lengthening as she screams. She doubles over, goes silent. 

"Penance," she mumbles. "Penance." 

A grenade with the pin pulled drops from her hidden hands and rolls a few feet away. The soldiers barely have time to react, let alone escape. 

Greta hears and feels the explosion, followed by several more, and hauls herself up. Out a tiny back window she can see odd colored flames shooting into the sky.

"Good job, girl," she rasps, before moving around to look out the front again.

There's probably fifty Xers there now, maybe more. The big heavy doors to the former post office still haven't given, but they will soon. She slides back down and takes out her walkie.


	87. Everybody Loves Steven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasper and Buck get a lot sprung on them.

The Soldier trusts Win implicitly - the welder is almost an extension of the little mechanic and vice versa they are so close and she quickly expanded that affection to include Buck, even when he was far less a real person than he is now. He knows she would not betray either of them, which is how he figured out she was working on Steve's behalf to distract him. And there is only one place the blonde would be taking their friends with the Valkyrie and Soldiers in tow - to make attempt on Crossbones. Buck's fear consumed him and he had a very human reaction to that - blind, stupid rage. 

Buck threw a massive tantrum, even putting his metal fist through the dashboard as he ranted. He told her how foolish they all were, how irresponsible they were not to dissuade Steve, not to _restrain_ him if needed, not to get Buck to talk him down. And to let the Valkyrie steal the Soldiers with virtually no understanding of how they operate or what their state is after so recently being revived, to trust her at all or even Monet when they are still both relative unknowns. 

Suddenly, shaken loose by his punch, the passenger side airbag had deployed in the middle of his tirade, slapping him in the face.

Win bit her lip, held her breath, but nothing stopped the laughter that eventually escaped as the Soldier crushed the inflated white sac between his hands until it popped. He crossed his arms and glared at her in silence, eyes still glowing ice blue, only making her laugh harder. Eventually his face cracked the slightest bit into a fond but irritated smirk. Buck can never resist being pleased when he makes someone laugh. Perhaps the person he lived as before was a comedian. 

Whatever Buck was, he is decidedly not that now, running faster and seeing farther than any human as he approaches the Xers settlement. His automatic weapon is slung across his back, belt filled with fresh magazines from the facility for reload, sidearm in a new thigh holster, knife sharp and ready in another. Of all the things he is now, he would like to believe _killer_ is not at the top of the list, but as he approaches he unclips one side of his mask, baring his teeth. He arrives to find the gate already smashed open from within, and can see several trucks speeding off in the distance. Xers at the gate are loading into an open topped off-road vehicle to pursue them - Buck has no idea who is fleeing, only that if they are an enemy of Crossbones then they are a friend to him. 

He leaps into the vehicle, stabbing and tearing and biting, ripping apart the half dozen soldiers who are there. Several more on foot open fire on him, but he leaps from the vehicle, slashing the artery in one's thigh with a quick gesture as he lands in a crouch, then springing up to fly at the other, wrapping arms and legs around them as he tears out their throat with his teeth. There is no sense in wasting bullets - he has no idea how many more he will encounter, but there could be hundreds of Xers inside. 

The Soldier leans back, closes his eyes, scents the air. He can't pick out Steve, or any of the others. There are too many smells here, too much death and blood and gunpowder amongst all the other usual aromas of such a large settlement. His friends must not be close. It is clear they are well into their plan from the chaos he hears in the distance. He focuses in with his ears instead of his nose, and quickly picks out the familiar sound of Sitwell's unusual rifle going off again and again. 

Jasper fired at Crossbones as long as he possibly could, but his lackies kept getting in the way, taking bullets for him gladly like martyrs for their faith. Then the monsters were out of sight with the mechanic around a corner several buildings down. Natasha had already leapt from roof to roof to reach Clint. Her building was overrun the fastest - too many points of access, but it couldn't be avoided with so few rooves to choose from in this area - and now she's back to back with her husband, firing bullet after bullet and swiftly reloading her twin handguns as he launches arrows into the oncoming horde. They have better control on this building, with there being only one fire escape that reaches the roof and the sides made of a smooth stucco that do not allow the drinkers to climb.

Sitwell has a moment of indecision. Most of his mind is screaming at him to chase after the blonde, but some part of him feels guilty leaving the couple to possibly die; despite his standing distaste for Barton, he had always respected Romanov (even if she had nearly busted his jaw). Ultimately he decides the pair are together, armed and have the high ground. Steven is utterly alone in the hands of a sadist. He hears movement on his own building - there's no obvious way to climb it, but some of the drinkers have managed to scramble up the brickwork and wide window frames. 

Years of training as a spy and an assassin had led him to already scope out an exit - he runs and leaps to the next building, then onto a shorter one, then it's a quick jump down onto an awning that he prays is not too sunrottted to hold him. Jasper rolls off of it and lands on the ground, clutching his rifle to his chest. He has a second of shock that nothing is broken before he's up and moving. He makes it to the alley where he had last seen Crossbones with Steven, but it's empty. There are blue footprints - the Xer leader had walked thoughtlessly through the Valkyrie's blood. 

Jasper tracks them for a bit as they fade and then they're gone. Glancing around he sees a low building, a heavy padlock on the door. Peering quickly in the window, he spots a familiar head of blonde hair and blasts in. The stench hits him like a slap to the face. There are rows of dirty beds with bodies in various states of decay, all obviously tortured and many scantily clad or nude. There are visible bite marks on them, like a small shark had repeatedly gotten a taste. 

Every single one is a petite man with short blonde hair. Jasper gapes as it sinks in what he's found.

The faintest rattling comes from the corner and he whips around with his huge weapon, training it towards the sound. There's a _living_ man there, wearing nothing but dingy briefs, chained to the wall by a huge collar around his neck. He's a bit bigger than Steven, hair obviously bleached lighter than was natural guessing from his black eyebrows. His facial features are a bit more angular and he's older, but Jasper can still see the resemblance - especially the prisoner's eyes, which are blue, fierce and unafraid. 

"Fuck, didn't anyone teach you to knock?" the man rasps sarcastically. "What if I was wanking in here?"

He's filthy, thin - not as emaciated as some of the corpses, but clearly underfed - and there are bite wounds, cuts, bruises and burns all over him. 

"Are you gonna fuck me or shoot me? Because I prefer the latter," the faux-Steven continues as the bespectacled man stares. 

The ex-ops knows he needs to move, but he can't help himself, momentarily too in shock to react. He'd realized very recently that his crush - which he'd only even let himself identify as such a short time ago - on the mechanic bordered on unhealthy. After his outburst at the paper factory he'd wondered if he were really as nuts as everyone thought. What _would_ he do to be with Steven? What line wouldn't he cross to have him close? 

But this. 

This is a monument, a temple, to Rumlow's obsession with the blonde. Jasper might be nosey, or say inappropriate things, even - he grudgingly admitted - be manipulative. He was pretty sure he was deluded imagining he had a chance at all but that hasn't stopped him from imagining, hoping, interfering. But if the physicists were right and this was one of millions of universes he was absolutely certain not a single Jasper Sitwell in any of them was remotely capable of even thinking of something like this let alone creating it. He vows to himself then and there that he'll stop fucking with the mechanic's life. Once he saves it anyway.

"Plug your ears," he orders the smaller man.

When the bottle blonde just furrows his dark brows, Sitwell points the huge gun at the chain connected to his collar.

"Unless you don't want to keep your eardrums." 

The captive complies and Jasper fires.

"Can you walk?" Sitwell queries.

"Do I get a piggy back ride if I can't?" the other man snarks, slowly getting up. 

Sitwell leans the huge gun up against the wall behind him, slips off his thin, baggy sweater. 

"I said I'd prefer to get shot," the other man jests, raising both hands as if Sitwell were getting naked. 

Jasper holds out the garment for him, shakes it to make his point when it's not taken quickly. The second the smaller man grasps it, the ex-ops has his rifle up again and ready. The bottle blonde slides it on, pulls it down with a firm tug to cover his underwear. 

"Th... Thank you," the smaller man manages. Every one of his joints pops as he stretches stiffly. "So, who the fuck are you? Slaver looking for some brothel meat? Because I bite." 

"More interested in someone else who bites." Jasper motions to the fang marks on the smaller man's pale thigh. "Any idea where he'd take the _real_ you?" 

"The...what? Oh! Ooooh. So he caught him. _Real Steve_. That poor bastard." 

"Where?!" Sitwell snarls. 

"He has private quarters, but you'd never get in." 

Jasper taps the barrel against his narrow chest. "Take me." 

"Nope. Just shoot me." He crosses his skinny arms defiantly and Sitwell really sees the appeal to Rumlow now - it's so Steve-like. "Better that than get ripped apart. Or worse yet, brought back here after he kills you and whoever you're with. I'm assuming all the hooplah _is_ from friends of yours. You're not the first idiots to try to raid this place." 

Jasper sighs, lowers the weapon. "Look, whatever he did to you was a walk in the park compared to what he'll do to Steven. Please. _Please_."

The bottle blonde breathes hard out of his nose, rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine. But if this goes tits up, you'd better shoot me." 

"Deal. What's your name?" 

"Paul," he responds cautiously. "So...did you come here to kill Crossbones or revoke my accounting license?" He gestures at Sitwell's button down shirt and slacks. 

After a second of glaring, Jasper offers the other man his sidearm. "Can you use one of these?" 

The blue eyes go big, but he nods and takes it.

"Now you can shoot _yourself_ if you feel the need. Just don't. Shoot. Me. Or my friends. No X, no shoot."

"Yes, sir!" Paul mock salutes him.

Sitwell narrows his eyes and motions with the gun barrel for the smaller man to lead the way. Soon they're scurrying through back alleys, avoiding Xer units headed to deal with the invading Claptrappers and Soldiers. 

"It's that one," Paul gestures to what had once clearly been the home of someone quite wealthy - it's heavily defended, nearly two dozen guards in front, several of them two- and three-stripes. "And this is where I bid you adieux. You're not _get my throat torn out cuuuuuute!_" 

Sitwell whirls to see the smaller man hoisted off the ground, arms pinned awkwardly to his sides by a set of long, muscular arms. One of them is metal. There's a loud sniff and Buck drops Paul unceremoniously.

"This is not Steve," the Soldier offers matter of factly as the small man whips around, eyes wide as he raises the gun. He seems to think better of it and moves to put the barrel in his mouth. Jasper swiftly puts his hand on the sidearm and stops him. 

"No! That one's with us! Jesus...you weren't kidding about the shooting thing." 

Sitwell pulls the gun from his guide, who's gaping. Paul presses himself tight to the building they're next to.

"Who are you? Why has your hair been made to look like Steve? Are you a decoy?" Buck steps closer to the bottle blonde, voice getting more frantic. "Jasper, is this man a decoy to mislead us? Where is Steve? I heard your shots, then when I was close I caught your scent and followed. I cannot pick out Steve's. _Where is Steve?_" 

"Quiet, Buck. Quiet. This is Paul. I found him in... I don't know what to call it." Jasper goes tight lipped.

"Rotten McNoDick's personal harem," Paul offers, sounding dazed. "You're.... You're like Crossbones. Except...I don't know. Like if his species had supermodels," he half-whispers to Buck. 

"Harem? This is a place sexual partners live, yes? If he is Crossbones' mate, why does he have a weapon?" The Soldier's eyes glow and he advances.

Paul suddenly looks angry instead of frightened and takes a step forward. "Don't fucking call me his _mate_! They had me chained up for three months. I -"

"Voices!" Sitwell softly hisses. "Look, fake-Steve brought me to Brock's house." He motions to the huge residence. "And I think our boy is in there."

"Paul," the smaller man grumps, accepting the gun when it's offered back to him. 

"_Paul_ is gonna fuck off to wherever and we're gonna go save the day. Got it?" 

"_Rude_," the smaller man offers, and if that wasn't the most Steve thing either of them had ever heard. 

"Have you been in this building before?" Buck questions Paul.

The smaller man hesitantly nods.

"Do you have an idea where Steve may be if he is inside? It is a large building and we have limited time. Can you lead us there?" the Soldier asks excitedly. 

"Nope, nope, nope! Not for all the cheddar cheese in the world am I going in there!" Paul moves to leave. 

"Please!" Buck begs, gripping his boney shoulder to stop him. 

"What's with this Steve guy? Why's everyone so obsessed?" the smaller man huffs, glaring up at the Soldier. 

"I am not _obsessed._" He side-eyes Sitwell, remembering his words at the paper plant. "I love him. He is my boyfriend," the tall man offers directly, making Paul raise both eyebrows so high they are almost hidden under his short, side-swept bangs. "Please. This man held Steve captive before, as he did to you. He will hurt him very badly. Possibly kill him. We must find him quickly." 

"Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck." Paul shakes his head a few times then nods it vigorously. "Okay. Okay. But promise me you're gonna kill this motherfucker."

"I have not failed at killing anyone I have made attempt on thus far," the Soldier offers. "And I know a place where there is cheese." 

"_Very comforting,_" Paul responds.

The Soldier, as usual, does not get the sarcasm. 


	88. We belong dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's day is about to get a whole lot worse.

Clint is having flashbacks to the reavertown roof - as he lets arrows fly into Xers - and feeling a sharp stab that Stevie isn't here with him. The drinkers are crazed and ranting, but at least they won't eat him (probably) - though he can't say the same for their leader or his weird gray-green pet. Every alarm bell is going off in his brain that he needs to get to the mechanic. The big, scarred up freak 

_I could _swear_ he looked like that dead Jack guy from the monitor in the facility, the one baby brother may or may not have slipped the pork sausage to, as yet unconfirmed_

had carried him off, with Barf Rumcock aka Crossboner aka Stevie's personal _torment pig_ trailing close behind. 

The bigger female Soldier is slowly fighting her way out of the corpse barricade she's buried in. Sadly, the hotter one is _literally_ hotter right now - she's slumped in a pile of corpses, scorched nearly totally black and the few Xers left in the street are just shooting into her again and again. 

_Waste of a great rack. Shit, that was sexist. And how can I like Luis when I'm such a tit man? Is saying tit man sexist? Stevie would probably say it's sexist, but of course Win is really cute and my tatas are bigger than hers so exceptions can be made, but man I really like Luis' pants goblin and who knew? Twenty five years of watching porn and never more than a comparative glance at someone else's trouser snake and **FUCK BARTON FOCUS!**_

A drinker makes it past his barrage and he has to knife the crazy fuck in the throat. 

_ But tit man is definitely sexist. I'm better than that_. 

Without the Valkyrie to control the Soldiers

_and fuck fuck fuck she's dead, she's in two pieces, and I did not see that shit coming. Heh heh. Cumming.... But fuck! Crossboner is indestructible! The kid lit Brocktholemew Rumington up and they shot him so many fucking times and I buried a shaft heh heh shaft in his brain and _

he's not entirely sure what they'll do. The one still moving seems to be murdering the enemy just fine. Val had said, kill anyone with the X, kill Crossboner when I give you the signal, and shown them footage of the abomination for good measure. And they shouldn't have needed the signal. The Valkyrie should have had it. The gray fucker should be Anne Boleyn right now. 

_WHAM Val still couldn't chop his neck because he's got a magic skeleton or some bullshit and now it's fucked! It's all fucked! Please let Stevie be okay. Please let Stevie be okay. Where the fuck is Crossboner? Where'd he take Stevie? Is the big freak with them? Are there more like that?_

Clint's no more thought it than Nat is suddenly not at his back. He whirls to see yet another gray-green thing - this one mutilated with hundreds of tiny wounds covering it's exposed flesh - carrying her off in a choke hold as she strategically strikes it with elbows and feet to no avail. She manages to get her arm twisted back at the right angle to empty her clip into the thing's chest and neck, but it doesn't even slow down.

"Hey, Frankenstein! That's my villager!" the archer screams, putting an arrow through its left eye socket and then its right in quick succession. 

Being blind apparently puts a damper on the fucker's mood, because it pauses to yank one of the arrows out. While it moves to grab the other, he realizes it heals slower than Buck, much slower - its waiting for its first eye to be functional, the second still sporting a gaping hole. That's his in. Clint shoots arrow after arrow into it's face and eyes as it snarls and grasps at them. 

The distraction gives Nat enough time to drop the pistol in her free hand and launch the remaining disc from Phil's device into its open mouth; the silver object digs into the back of the thing's throat. The redhead slips down in its grasp as the archer continues bombarding its face and she presses the two sensors together on the hand controller, blowing the charge - its lower jaw, throat, lips and nasal cavity explode outward in a rain of black blood and gray-green spongy chunks. 

_That. Was fucking cool._

The redhead breaks fully free as it flails, turns and jams her other pistol into the gaping hole where its soft palate used to be and fires again and again, blowing its brains out various holes in its skull. It drops like a bag of cement. Nat's on her knees grabbing the other pistol, reloading both clips simultaneously with the devices on her belt made for that task, and then she empties both weapons into its eye sockets just to be sure. 

"Yeah, baby!" Clint yells, turning to slash the throat of an oncoming Xer as they jump the little pile of corpses he and his wife had made; a second dives on him and he slugs them in the face with the hand still gripping the bow then buries the switchblade in their temple. 

As he's fighting, the archer hears another feral scream in the distance - it's like Crossboner _ knows_ they killed his minion. The drinkers freeze, lift their eyes to the sky, listening. They couldn't have been connected to him like this at a distance, or Bry is the Rumlow Gone would have known what they did during the thing with Phil, but at this range it's like he's in their heads. Or maybe they can hear him but not vice versa.

_Tune your radio dial to K. I. L. L._

They'd been leaving their weapons holstered when they came for him and Nat and Sitwell 

_Where'd that creepy fucking geek get off to?_

like Crossboner wanted Steve's friends alive, but now the drinkers that have them are drawing their guns, fanning out on the ledge to take aim. And there's so many. Too many. 

Clint runs at his wife, grabs her, spins fast and throws her hard towards the neighboring rooftop. He sees her land against the side, hands grabbing the ledge, popping up gracefully to safety - he smiles as she turns. There's a barrage of gunfire then black. The vague feeling of tilting. Of falling. Then nothing.

His first sensation is a very familiar one, warm against his mouth. 

_Fuck, Luis has nice lips and they feel so good. And his hair._

He feels the thick curls around his fingers. 

_God, I love touching big, ringlety hair. Like Nat's. His feels different though. Not better or worse, just different. They both have great skin, too. So soft._

He feels his other hand slide around the smaller man's cheek and jaw. 

_ And fuck it would be hot to see them together, if I could get past being insanely jealous. Fuck, I'm jealous when Nat's with Win. It's hot, but I'm jealous. But I'm jealous of Win on Luis too, and shit I'm not sure I could see him with Nat and not go double ballistic and what does that say about how I feel about him?_

He feels heavy everywhere, but he still manages to push up into the warmth, hums into it - he doesn't want to lose this, even though it's scary, even though it's complicated. 

_And maybe he wouldn't want me to feel that way. He said I'd **never be his person**. Remember? In the gym. But after last time in the truck... He was so sweet and the way he just curled up with me. And you're stupid, Barton, so stupid. Maybe Nat's right. Ten seconds of affection and I'm hooked. And hasn't that always been me? Wasn't that what the cheating was about with Laura? Never enough attention in the world to make you feel loved? He couldn't really like me. Not really. Not like that. So why am I getting so attached? Why do I always think sex means something more?___

Luis mumbles his name against his lips. 

_ And Win. Fuck she's being so nonchalant - ooh, big word, Barton - about all this but maybe I'm stepping on her toes muscling in on him, even if she doesn't want to say it. I mean, she's always been super cool, laid back. Always really liked her and she's a cutie and I get why Nat likes her and I want them to be happy and I wanna be happy...and Win's lips felt good too if I'm honest, and shit was I surprised when she kissed me and goddamn, I'd give her a go if she asked. Win._

He feels hands on his chest, pushing. 

_ Win. Did we win? Is this celebration kissing? Why am I laying on the hard ass ground? Who cares? Just go with it, Barton. That's what you're good at. More Luis lips please. Labios de Luis, por favor. Que bueno - _

**Whack!**

He feels a hard smack upside his face and finally opens his eyes. He's clutching a very displeased looking Luis, one hand on the younger man's face and the other tangled in his hair, as he vigorously moves his own mouth against the smaller man's very still one. 

"Ow! The fuck was that for? Too much tongue?" Clint yelps, letting Luis up a bit as his own head drops back. 

"You got shot again, dumbass!" the younger man yells, pulling from the archer's now loose grip and whacking him again on the cheek so hard it makes a harsh whipcrack sound. "You got shot and now you're trying to make out with me!" 

He slaps Clint again - alternating hands - and just keeps at it, nice lips twisted into a scowl, big green eyes angry and scared and shiny. 

"Fuck! Ow! Stop! The fuck is happening?" 

The archer sits up abruptly, blocking his head and neck with his folded arms like he learned as a boxer, and 

_fucking flying pink elephants_

everything is spinning and his back and legs hurts. 

_Don't feel shot though. Maybe Buck fixed me. Where is the big guy? Where the fuck am I?_

"You got shot, dumbass!" Luis keeps pummeling him, now with his fists - he hits a lot harder than he looks capable of. 

"I caught that part! Ow! Fuck stop!" 

"And you have the goddamn nerve to fucking _kiss me_ two seconds after you're breathing again!" 

"What?!" the archer squawks. 

"**You were dead!**" the younger man yells, in front of Clint on his knees; he hits the older man harder for a second and then just slumps forward, forehead against Clint's chest, beneath the archer's bent elbows. "Estabas muerto. Estabas muerto." 

Luis is shuddering as his arms slide around Clint's waist. The gravity of the situation slowly starts to sink in - the archer lowers his arms from his face, lays them over the smaller man's shoulders and stretches them down his back, trying to comfort him. 

"You were...giving me mouth to mouth resuscitation, weren't you?" the archer asks slowly - he feels Luis nod. "Well, fuck." 

The older man looks down and there are holes through his vest, two armor piercing rounds through his heart, coagulating blood all over him. He can see unmarred flesh through the big openings. He's healed - looking around he doesn't see Buck, but the ginger and the big female are flaying the burnt Soldier like the gang had done for their friend at the reavertown. 

"Red healed you. He didn't know CPR though so I had to jump in." Clint hears and feels Luis' muffled, tear-choked voice say against him. "I'd been at it a while. I thought...fuck...I thought you weren't coming back. Leave it to you to try to _get some action_ the second you come back to life." 

He feels a sob rack through Luis' body. 

"You keep saving me. It isn't helping me not fall for you," Clint says without thinking. 

_What the hell, dude? Why'd you tell him that? Lack of oxygen to the brain? I hope not. Like you can afford more damage in that department, Barton._

"Cállate, cabron," Luis says with a little smirk as he sits up. 

Just like that day on the basketball court, Clint can't help but slide his thumbs to wipe the tears from under those big, pretty green eyes. 

"Where's everyone else?" the smaller man asks. 

"Fuck! Fuck! Nat!" Clint tries to stand, memory snapping back like an overstretched bow string - he stumbles and Luis has to catch him. "She's up there alone!" He manages to gesture to the rooftop, a hoard of drinkers visible from the ground. 

"Red! 22! Protect the red headed woman up there." 

Luis juts his chin towards the top of the building. The ginger runs over, scurries up the side and the big female follows him. Suddenly there's body parts and eviscerated corpses flying down onto the street. 

"24," Luis addresses the now fully healed Soldier on the ground, "drain as many corpses as you can in the next two minutes, then follow us. Keep killing the ones marked with the X. Protect us and the redheaded woman." 

The smaller female Soldier immediately sinks her teeth in the nearest body. 

"You remembered all of their words?" Clint asks, looking around for his bow, spotting it broken in half twenty feet away. 

_Shitballs._

"Yep. I'm jefe for all three of them right now, unfortunately." 

Luis pulls two handguns from his waistband and offers one to the older man - he takes it with a huff; he's not a great shot. They head for the fire escape to Nat's building. 

"Did you order him to catch me? Like a damsel in distress," Clint smirks, despite the situation, feeling rather special _thank you very much._

"Didn't have to. I went through the pictures we took at the hotel with him in the truck. I said _if it's one of these people, you protect them, no matter what. If they're injured, you put your blood in their wounds._ He saw you up there near the edge, and before I even knew what was happening he was saving you." 

Another Xer body flies down past them, neck torn open. 

"I also said if the person has an X painted on their chest, you kill them. If I point at them, you kill them." 

"That's what you whispered to him in the facility, with Hill? That and the whole ear plugging humming thing." Clint sounds impressed, even as he runs up steps two to a time. 

"Yeah," Luis huffs after him. 

"You're so fucking smart," the archer beams when they reach the top landing, crouching down. 

"I'm about to go on a rooftop full of lunatics to save my..._whatever the fuck you are's_ wife, armed with just a handgun when I've never successfully shot anybody before and I'm afraid of heights. Oh, and I'm still _ fucking high_. How smart am I?" 

Then they're up and training their weapon towards their expected foes. 

Natasha is standing there with her hands on her hips. "I didn't need their help. I was fine." 

Every Xer is a corpse and the Soldiers are flanking her protectively. 

"Good job, Red," Luis offers the big Soldier. 

"Thank you, Luis. I am glad my performance was satisfactory," 21 responds. 

"Woah!" Clint squawks in surprise. 

"And you too..." Luis looks to the female Soldier but before he can finish speaking the big ginger interjects. 

"That is Washington." 

"Oh, you knew her too. Good job, Washington," Luis addresses 22. "That's what we're going to call you now, 22. Washington. Until you pick a different name." 

She's much darker gray than the others, full features, short afro. She's close to six feet tall and built like a kickboxer. 

"Thank you, Luis. I am glad my performance was satisfactory," she offers. 

24 joins them suddenly, looking fully rejuvenated. 

"And her?" the smaller man queries 21. 

"Ramos." 

"24, we're going to call you Ramos. What's your condition, Ramos?" Luis addresses the shorter Soldier. 

"I am fully operational, Luis." 

"Okay what the fuck? Are you the vampire whisperer?" Clint marvels. 

"I turned their limiters down. Like - " The younger man breaks off, his face falling. "Like _Val_ told Buck how to do. They're more alert, can act on their own some and they understand a lot of things better. And Red... remembers stuff. From being human. A lot of stuff. Way more than Winter." 

"Is that safe?" Nat balks. 

"If you were worried about safe, you assholes shouldn't have come here!" He whirls on the assassin. "You got Val fucking killed!" 

"She died like a warrior, doing what needed to be done! Something you wouldn't understand, child," Nat hisses, taking a step towards him. 

"Oookay, let's all just calm down," Clint offers, putting a hand on both their shoulders - both parties push him off. 

"Verdad, no comprendo running stupidly into a situation you can't possibly survive just because your _loco friend_ needs his fucking revenge. **I** could have just sat in the truck! I could be making out with **our** girlfriend right now. In fact, she could have been just my girlfriend again actually, when these crazy motherfuckers slaughtered you both. But noooooo! I felt bad and came to help." 

The younger man is furious, green eyes taking turns burning a hole in the redheaded woman and then the archer as he rants. 

"You with all your field experience and your training and yet you ran in here half cocked with your bullshit plan and _you_ just follow along! You idiots got one of my best friends _sliced the fuck in half_, and **I** had to come save you dumb fucks from yourselves and I'm the child? _God help you and Steve Rogers_ if Winter is hurt or trapped." 

_It's really inappropriate to find these angry people so hot, right?_ Clint thinks offhandedly.

The smaller man glares at the assassin and she returns it

_Seriously gonna get a boner._

though uncharacteristically without rebuttal.

"Crossboner took Steve. Not sure where Jasper went either. Probably after them," Clint finally clears his head enough to offer. 

"Red," Luis calls, pulling a t-shirt from his back pocket, "can you find the person this belongs to?" 

21 sniffs Steve's t-shirt, then leans his head back and scents the air. "Negative." 

Luis sighs, hesitates, then pulls a pair of tighty-whitey underwear from his jacket. "How about this person?" 

The big Soldier repeats the gestures, then nods. 

"Are those Sitwell's _manties_ you're running around with?" Clint queries, smirking. 

"It was all he had in the laundry!" the younger man huffs.

"What article of clothing did you find us with?" The archer grins.

"I decline to comment."


	89. Look, bitch, you knew I was a snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is utterly unprepared for what awaits.

Buck, Jasper and Paul are finalizing their plan for the guards outside of Crossbones' residence when the walkie on Sitwell's waistband suddenly squawks. He snatches at it quickly, turning it down as a familiar voice starts talking.

At the same time a few blocks away, Clint, Nat, Luis and the three other Soldiers are back on the street, preparing to follow Jasper's trail when Clint's walkie - shockingly not broken - comes to life. 

"This is Mama Bear, does anybody copy?"

"We read you. What's your sitrep? Over." Jasper and the others slide farther away from the mansion down the building they're sheltering next to, into a small alcove, where they won't be heard.

"We? You got a mouse in your pocket Four Eyes or are some of my kids with you? Are they okay?" Greta demands.

"I've got Two-Three here, safe and sound," Sitwell responds quietly. "I'm good too. _Thanks for asking_. A few grazes but nothing serious." 

"We read you, Mama Bear. This is Hawkeye. I've got Black Widow, the Green Eyed Monster," Clint smirks at Luis' scowl, "and three friendly grays here ready for action."

"Red and Luis are there with you as well?" Buck demands, grabbing the walkie. 

"Where's Captain America? Where's Asimov's Stepdaughter?" Greta asks. 

There's a long moment of silence. 

"She didn't make it and Crossbones...has him," Clint answers, voice angry and sad and afraid all at once. 

"Jesus," the older woman huffs. 

"We are near Crossbones' residence," Buck adds. "We believe Steve is inside. I can smell him now, but it is faint, masked. We have a...local who is assisting us." 

"Oh, you meet back up with Princess?" Greta questions, tone perking up a bit.

"M's not with you?" Clint queries. 

"We parted ways. She found out her sisters were at the Doc's. Saw that place go up like a matchbox a bit ago though." The older woman sighs. "Not sure she made it out." 

Buck's face pinches. Despite the distrust his logic had told him to harbor, he had grown attached to the young woman quickly, her presence sparking the echo of feelings of so many memories with Becca (even if the specifics of the events are unclear). He takes a deep breath and pushes on. 

"We can attempt to direct all of you to our location, but we cannot wait for your arrival. Steve is in great danger and we must enter soon."

"Red has a bead on Sit...on Four Eye's scent. We can head your way asap, Two-Three," the archer responds. 

"I won't be joining you. Time to hang up my spurs," Greta offers with a soft chuckle. 

"Do you require assistance? Should some of the others divert to your location?" Buck asks with concern. 

"No. It's way too late for that, kiddo." The older woman pulls her jacket back - her midsection and the top of her pants are drenched in blood. "Took some fire bustin' into the armory. Machine gun burst right across the middle. Sent the freed on their way to the redezvous like we talked about, with as much as their trucks could carry, then barricaded myself in." 

"We don't know where that building is. Give us some guidance and we'll come help!" Clint insists. "We can draw the Xers away and one of the grays can fix you." 

"Greta, do what Clint says," Win chimes in suddenly over her walkie. 

"Don't want them away. Want every last one of those fucks up nice and close. Besides, big guy's showed me how much blood he can give someone before they're a vegetable. It wouldn't be enough. Not nearly."

They all start arguing with her, talking over each other on the feed. 

"Shut the fuck up!" the older woman bellows. "Look, I won't get all maudlin since you've got places to be. I just...wanted to say...it's been great. Knowing all of you. Bucky, sweetheart. You saw something in me I didn't even see in myself. Gave me purpose, brought me closer to my kids. I want you to go get our boy and you fucking hold onto him as long as this shit world will let you. I've never seen him happier than with you and don't you forget that. That means _you_ need a new hobby, Jasper. You're not so bad when you're not being such a creep. Winnie, my girl. You're everything I wished I could be when I was younger, fearless and strong. I'm so proud of you."

She breaks off, coughs wetly.

"Ginger Snaps, you should be nice to your husband. Just occasionally. Even though he's an idiot, he's our idiot and no one else is ever going to put up with what a bitch you are. Don't get me wrong - that's my favorite thing about you. Keep not giving any fucks. But don't be like me. Don't wait til life is almost over to realize it's better when you let people on your side of the glass." 

Greta looks down at the picture of herself and Phil on her lap, smiles wistfully.

"Maybe be nice to Luis sometimes, too. He nearly died earlier saving your man's ass, and he still dragged himself out here to help. He's a good egg. Speaking of - Luis, kiddo, I want to leave you my house. No more sleeping on floors. You let the rest of the gang pick out a few things of mine they want, and the rest is yours. And you be nice to Clint too. He's sweet on you, the lug."

She laughs, coughs a bit more ending in a wheeze.

"Clint, you're a funny fucker, I'll give you that. And you've always protected the family. You're the oldest of my kids, so you gotta take care of the rest for me, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Clint barely manages. 

"Remember, mother Greta loves you all. Tell Steve that for me, after you kill that ugly motherfucker!"

The walkies go silent. 

"Greta," Buck calls. "Greta! **Greta!**"

The older woman sits the walkie down, picks back up her joint, takes a deep drag, looks down at Phil. 

"Those fucking flowers."

She laughs. She's laughing still when the Xers finally break the door in. 

"Took you sons'a bitches long enough!" 

As they train their weapons on her to fire they see she's clutching a length of blasting wire in one hand she'd taken from a crate - it's looped through the detached pins of every single grenade on her belt.

"Yippe-kay-aye mother -"

The Claptrappers and their allies hear a huge boom rumble in the near-distance, followed by repeated explosions of various magnitudes as the munitions inside the armory go up a few crates at a time. Suddenly there's a massive blast - so hard it shakes the ground beneath their feet. 

Buck grits his teeth, eyes blazing ice-blue then white then an unearthly gray - like a flashlight through fog - as he growls and slams his metal fist into the brick wall. He runs from cover into the waiting crowd of guards, stabbing, biting, shooting, grabbing people by necks and limbs and hurtling them into the distance, into neighboring buildings. Jasper snipes from cover around the corner. The group of Xers are all down in under two minutes and the Soldier is kicking in the big, heavy double doors of Crossbones' personal mansion seconds after. He stops to gesture at his compatriots.

"That's our cue, _fake-Steve_!" Sitwell says to the small man next to him, before turning to run for the mansion.

"Call me that again and my trigger finger will slip,_ Four Eyes_!" Paul yells as he chases after him. 

For all the filth of the settlement and most of its residents - not to mention the twisted, disgusting visage of the man himself - Crossbones' residence is pristine inside. It screams old money, draped in the finest fabrics, tasteful and yet just too much in the way a place with so many antiques always is. This is the type of place Brock Rumlow would have only seen if he were busting in to kill a dignitary at their summer villa or been directed to protect a senator. 

"Main stairs. Third floor!" Paul yells to Buck. 

Servants - well dressed but shackled at the ankles and attached to long leads mounted in the brickwork and marble - scream and try to flee as the Soldier tears through more guards inside. Paul pulls a ring of keys from one of the bodies he recognizes from his visits here, tosses it and a gun to the cowering woman nearest him. 

"Get everyone the fuck out of here!" he commands as the Soldier starts tearing through men firing at them from the grand master staircase in the center of the main room. "Really great plan! _So happy_ we teamed up with him! This is all going swimmingly!" the smaller man screams over the sound of automatic weapons as he ducks behind a huge piece of hardwood furniture, bullets shredding the front of it. 

Sitwell is similarly positioned twenty feet away behind a very large, expensive sofa. "Well, I didn't expect him to run in the literal front door, _fake-Steve_!" 

Paul grimaces and shoots the hardwood floor five feet from Sitwell. When the bespectacled man glares he just puffs his narrow chest out and shrugs. "Accident!" 

They both watch Buck start to advance up the steps, those above backing away as they fire on him. He's not even attempting to take cover, just shooting back methodically, getting repeated kill shots as his arms, legs and face are wounded and heal again and again. 

"Shit, is there any limit to the number of bullets he can take?" Paul yells, ducking back as shattering glass from the door of the huge cabinet he's hiding behind sprays towards him. 

"Not as long as he has a _snack_ after a bit!" Jasper returns, glancing up. "Ahhh, exhibit A."

He gestures to Buck, who has his teeth buried in one of the guard's necks - he's sucking him down quick, paralyzing him, as he also uses him (probably accidentally with all the care he's exhibiting) as a shield. The Soldier continues firing on several other guards who are attempting to shoot him through their comrade, bullets pinging off the metal arm he has around his victim's waist. When he's shot at from behind, he whirls and throws the corpse hard - it flies ten yards and knocks over two advancing Xers. Buck is on them in seconds, latching on to one's jugular as he struggles beneath the weight of the body and the Soldier. The brunette crushes the other downed Xer's head with his metal fist with a single hard blow as he drinks. Sitwell snipes another guard as she advances behind the Soldier, but not before her shot had grazed Buck's skull. 

"This is no time to be sloppy! Enough head shots and maybe you're not you anymore!" the ex-ops insists. 

"I am certain that would upset you very much!" Buck responds, turning to fire at those shooting from the mezzanine above. 

"Did you just use _sarcasm_?!" Sitwell nearly squawks, ducking back behind a marble column to escape the barrage of bullets. 

Buck makes a loud, open-mouthed sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss of frustration at Jasper, then leaps up to the next floor, grabbing the banister and looping over gracefully, landing feet first into the chest of another Xer. It drives their ribs into their organs and they're flailing on the ground, coughing blood, when he puts a bullet between their eyes. He dropkicks another over the edge and she flies down onto the stairs below with a loud splat, narrowly missing Paul as he cautiously advances. 

"To the left!" the small man calls, rounding the landing between the first and second floor, Jasper now fifty feet from the Soldier. 

Buck looks down to his guide. 

"There's a hidden door! About halfway down the hall. Where the wallpaper has the most roses! You have to press three times on the left side." 

The Soldier, even with his excellent eye sight, has difficulty picking out a seam with the intricate design of wood layered over the wallpaper. He just starts slamming his metal fist into the wall near the described spot until he smashes through the plaster and the heavy door it hides. After his arm rams through the steel, he curls it in, lifts up and pulls back, ripping the entire thing from the hinges. Plaster and wallboard splinter and spray as he yanks the giant metal door from the false wall.

"Down!" he orders his now-close compatriots, then hurtles it. 

Jasper and Paul drop to the floor and it narrowly misses them, slamming into several more guards approaching from behind. 

They head up the stairs, Buck on point with his automatic weapon ready. As soon as he rounds the bend at the top, the Jack-thing is on him, grabbing his flesh wrist and slamming the hand into the wall hard enough to smash through it and shake the gun from his grasp. The Soldier has time to note its mouth, chin, neck and chest are covered in fresh, red blood and it smells of Steve before the gray-green thing buries it's jagged teeth in his neck. 

Buck cries out, the pain terrible, worse than anything he's felt since leaving the facility, even the fire. Something cold seeps into him, like liquid nitrogen, freezing and burning at the same time. It is hard to move the feeling is so excruciating. The Soldier summons all his will and gets a fistful of its hair - he yanks, but it only rips off, scalp and all. 

"Jack. You never could play well with others." 

Suddenly Jasper is there, aiming the high-powered rifle at the gray-green things head and firing again and again, blowing its rotting brain all over the hallway. It slumps, slowly pulling loose from Buck's neck and falling to the ground, twitching. Sitwell stomps its skull until his pristine tan slacks are black and saturated, then shoulders his rifle and takes the Soldier's blade from its holster. The brunette is just standing there, dazed and clutching his still-wounded flesh, as Jasper starts sawing at the thing's neck. When he's finally sliced away the meat, he slams the blade through a disc between two cervical vertebrae to sever the spine, then picks the smushy, crushed mess of head up and chucks it past Paul down the stairs for good measure. 

"Let me see," Paul instructs the Soldier, gripping the hand holding his neck.

Buck growls but Paul doesn't flinch away, just pulls harder until the brunette relents. The wound is leaking black goo and the veins surrounding it are darkening. 

"Fuck, it's spreading. We shouldn't let it reach his brain. Do you have another knife?" 

Jasper looks at Buck a long moment, their eyes locking. He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a Swiss army knife.

"Oh my God, what a boy scout," Paul rolls his eyes, flicking the blade open. "Go get a body. A full one." He gestures down the stairs. "Okay, scary vampire guy. Remember I'm on your side and hold still." 

Paul digs the knife into Buck's neck - the Soldier gritting his teeth and growling - then pulls the blade down in a wide slash following the curve of the lower half of the bite mark. He does the same with the upper set of teeth marks. Black gushes from the wound. The dark spread up his neck slows but doesn't stop.

"Fuck! Lean down, big fellow." 

The small man grips Buck's shoulders and the brunette complies with limited resistance. Paul locks his mouth over the wounds and sucks as hard as he can, pulling back after a few seconds to spit out a mouthful of dark goo. He repeats the process again and again until what he is ejecting is purple instead of black, then does it a few more times for good measure until it doesn't taste rotten and the surrounding veins aren't visible anymore. The whole mess sluggishly heals but Buck still looks unsteady, shaken, his eyes glowing an odd shade of gray-blue Jasper has never seen when the bespectacled man - red, sweaty and panting - delivers a body as promised.

"Fuck, they're still alive," Paul says softly, watching the person blink when Sitwell dumps them off his shoulder.

"Neck's broken. Drink up, Buck." 

"I could see it. Him. Jack. Through his eyes. I could see him killing Steve over and over," Buck whispers.


	90. Come play with us, forever and ever.

"You should eat," Jasper insists. "The Xer is dead now anyway. I need you strong to do this." 

Buck is visibly trembling and hasn't pulled away from the wall, hand fussing with the spot on his neck that's healed now. He shakes his head, looks ready to vomit. 

"How'd you know to do that?" the bespectacled man asks their new companion, even as he gestures again for the Soldier to feed; Buck shakes his head. 

"I've seen that thing and the others like it bite people before, seen their poison spread through them, make them go nuts if it hits their brain, kill them if they latch on long enough," Paul says softly. "I didn't know if what I tried would work it's just...what I've seen people do in movies. For snake bites."

Jasper rolls his eyes. _Civilians._

"That doesn't actually work on snake bites. His pulse is slow and the..._venom_ or whatever looked thick, so maybe it just couldn't spread very fast. You saw that happen to the... other Steves?" 

"No. Other slaves I knew, before the Chooser found me. And soldiers that displeased Crossbones. He never let anyone else touch his little collection unless it was medically necessary." 

"What do you mean? Other Steves?" the Soldier stands straight, recovers his now-clean knife from Jasper. "What is a Chooser?"

"We don't have time for this! Eat! Quick! Actual Steve needs our help, remember?" Sitwell orders. 

Buck growls but he can't deny he feels weak and time is short. He shakes his muddled head to clear it and starts to make quick work of the fresh corpse while Jasper fishes the Soldier's automatic weapon out of the hole in the wall. Paul watches the brunette drink with horrified fascination. 

"You get used to it," Sitwell offers, only being slightly dishonest. 

"I never did," the smaller man mutters. "I think...I think I know what the thing showed him. Crossbones keeps the _fed_ here."

"Are those like..._drinkers_?" Jasper asks.

"Drinkers _want_ his blood, want to be connected to him. The fed are people he forced it on, like...like me. It put me in this...trance...I guess. Like an endless nightmare." He looks at his feet. "Then I...got out of it."

"How?" 

"It's hard to explain. But when I started to break free, to come to, Crossbones was there, with his hand on my face. It felt like he was...feeding on me, but he wasn't biting me. It was like he was...absorbing my fear, my pain. When I pushed out of it totally, broke that connection, I got sent to the room with the others it didn't work on, the ones he spent his time torturing and biting and... Most of the fed don't ever wake up though and he keeps them here, in these rooms, until he uses them up. Little misery snacks he can have whenever he wants. My guess is that's why he's not out here murdering us when we haven't exactly been quiet. He's busy _feasting_ on his prize, dead to the world. Now that he has Steve, _real Steve_, he doesn't need the fed. So I'm guessing....he had that thing..." Paul glances down at the Jack-thing's headless body. 

"_Kill Steve over and over_," Jasper whispers, looking from his kill to the smaller man, who nods.

Paul looks to the nearest door, eyes wet. "I have to check, if there's any left alive." 

"I'll go," Jasper offers quietly. 

There are dozens of tiny rooms down the long, creepy hallway - the lighting is dim, the walls painted an oxblood color. Each space is just big enough for a small cot. There's a man (or teenage boy) who looks like Steve in all of them. They each have a healed or partially healed shark-like bite mark, some even a few, but their bodies are not bruised and filthy like the ones where he had found Paul. They're nearly pristine, save every one of them has recently had their jugular ripped open. Sitwell's usual deep, cool brown complexion is wan by the time he finishes checking the rooms minutes later. He looks almost seasick as he shakes his head at Paul. Buck, freshly finished, is checking and reloading his weapon. 

"Take us to Crossbones," the Soldier demands. 

The bottle-blonde lets out a hard breath. "There's another stairwell at the end of the hall with some rickety ass stairs. That goes to his bedroom. Look, I'll stay here, yell if more of them come. But I can't go in there. Not again. And nothing you say or do will make me." 

"I understand," Buck offers, eyeing the closest door - he can smell the blood clearly now, so many different kinds, but a faint hint of the little mechanic breaks through. If he is truly so close, how can his aroma be so weak? Maybe weak is not the right word - changed. Like it is both Steve and not Steve. 

"Something you should know," Jasper whispers as they approach the staircase. "The Valkyrie tried to cut his head off and her sword just..._whacked_ against his spine. Same thing with the bullets we shot into his head - they bounced off his skull. His skeleton is.... Fuck, I don't know. Steve lit him on fire too and he didn't seem overly phased. He's not like you."

"Not him. Not he. _It_," Buck says coldly.

"I don't...I don't know if we can kill him. Kill it." 

"Then I will occupy Crossbones while you take Steve and go. Do not go back to Claptrap. Do not stop running. You are clever, Steve even more so. You can evade Crossbones indefinitely if you do not settle," Buck offers in a firm voice, clearly choking down the emotion the direction churns up in him. 

"What about you?" Even Sitwell is shocked to hear himself say it, and by the slightest hint of concern in his voice. 

"I will fight him with all that I have until there is nothing left," the Soldier offers matter-of-factly.

"You really love Steve, don't you?" 

"As you must," the Soldier eyes him, "or you would not put yourself in this great danger, against such insurmountable odds." 

Jasper's face scrunches, but there's no time to dissect or discuss what's been said - he readies his rifle as they reach the lone room at the top of the steps. Buck kicks the door in, his own weapon raised, ready to be attacked. It is still and silent in the spacious room. There are massive floor to ceiling windows looking out onto a courtyard in the center of the building, the room hidden from the street. Indirect sunlight spills in, illuminating all but the far recesses of the well-decorated, lavish space. 

In the center of the room sits a huge four-post bed with a canopy, draped in deep charcoal fabric. The bedding is the same shade, making the pale, fair-haired person sprawled across it stand out even more. While the light manages to reach Steve, making his cornsilk hair shine and milkbath skin glow, the dark gray thing next to him - with it's big hand on the mechanic's face - blends fairly well with the heavy canopy curtains between him and the window. They cast Crossbones in shadow, his glowing red irises just tiny slits beneath his mostly closed lids. His expression is contorted in ecstasy as the smaller twitches soundlessly beneath his touch. 

The petite blonde is naked and there are bitemarks all over his body - perhaps it had taken more than one to make him submit to whatever state the creature had forced him into, or perhaps Brock could not resist his sweet taste. Buck can see between Crossbones' fingers the little mechanic's sea-blue eyes are open but glazed. The endless font of rage inside the Soldier is normally so careful to tamp down had started to roil first when he discovered Steve and the others had run off, heating to a boil when he knew the little mechanic had been captured and then bubbling over when he had lost Greta. Seeing that thing use the person he loved most in the world for its own selfish pleasure turned it to an erupting volcano. He releases his self-control with an inhuman scream and runs at Crossbones, tackling him off Steve. 

"**Take him and go!**" he bellows at Sitwell, eyes glowing white - he feels his enemy tense in his grasp, coming to from his stupor, and slams Brock hard to the ground.

"**MINE!!!!**" Crossbones screams, flailing beneath Buck as he sees Jasper hastily wrap the blonde in the blanket he's laying on and scoop him up, the big rifle strapped across his back. "**Mine! Mine! MINE!**" the monster rants. 

The Soldier can barely hold Crossbones - it is incredibly strong and Buck is still feeling the effects of the venom from the Jack-thing's bite. Brock surges up, smashes his literally rock hard head into Buck's, caving the front of the Soldier's skull and his nose. It sends him flying back in a spray of purple blood. The thing is up in a second, charging after Sitwell with unnatural speed. 

Buck - barely able to see as his flesh and bones knit back together, head ringing, mind foggy - throws himself towards the creature, wrapping his arms around its lower legs. He topples it mere feet from Jasper. The bespectacled man jumps to avoid the reaching hands, runs to the stairwell door. 

"MINE! MINE! MINE!" Sitwell hears Rumlow scream behind him. "MIIINE! MIIINE!" 

"HE WILL NEVER BE YOURS!" the Soldier screams.

He slams his metal fist into the back of Brock's head - the hit echoes with a dull clang, the vibration painful to the soft tissue inside the outer shell of his arm. Other than the glass wall at the facility, nothing has ever stopped it from denting, crushing, splintering, shattering whatever he directed it at. The momentary shock is enough for Crossbones to catch him off guard, direct an elbow up and back into the Soldier's chest, crushing his sternum and knocking him off. 

The thing scrambles forward on all fours, launches itself through the doorway and down the stairs. Jasper is nearly to the bottom now, hears it following as it chants that same word possessively again and again. The bespectacled man pushes on with all he's worth, legs and back burning under the strain. Steve is light for an adult, but still over a hundred pounds of dead weight draped over Sitwell's narrow shoulder. Buck launches out of the doorway and flies on Brock from above, the force collapsing the open staircase, hundreds of pounds of debris falling with them. Sitwell runs out the door to the long hallway in a cloud of dust - he can hear them fighting in the wreckage. 

"Take him! Take him!" Jasper screams to a surprised Paul as he slides Steve's cocooned body down the smooth hardwood floor.

The smaller man freezes with shock, but he grabs for the blonde as he sees red eyes in the distance through the doorway behind Jasper - the bespectacled man spins with his rifle and shoots them both out. Paul can't lift Steve but he can drag him, getting him under the arms around the thick blanket, gun still in his hand as he crosses his forearms over the narrow chest. Steve's legs and feet thump hard against the set of stairs back to the hole in the wall where the hidden door once was; they'll probably bruise badly, but it can't be helped. The huge rifle goes off intermittently above, the sound of the two non-humans smashing each other into the walls and floor almost constant, punctuated by the clang of the taller gray's metal fist slamming into hard surfaces. 

Paul is only a few yards along the hall leading to the mezzanine when Crossbones bursts through the wall in front of him rather than the open hole behind. The bottle-blonde falls backwards, Steve's body sprawling over his legs and midsection as he raises a trembling hand to shoot at his (their) tormentor. It just laughs as the bullets rip through its throat and chest, the holes healing quickly. 

"Should have shot myself," Paul grumbles, the gun clicking uselessly as he keeps pulling the trigger. He looks down at the blonde. "Should have shot us both. Sorry, real Steve." 

He throws the gun at Crossbones with a loud grunt and a defiant grimace - he'd seen that in the movies too and it always seemed like a good expression of frustration. 

"I have no more use for you, pretender," it growls through a menacing smile, grabbing Paul by his slender neck and hoisting him up off the ground, Steve's body slipping off of him onto the smooth marble floor.

Paul puts on a good show of fighting back, knowing his unbreakable will to resist was why Crossbones had kept him alive after he'd killed the others. It was only delaying the inevitable, but maybe it would amuse the monster long enough for the _other monster_ to catch up to them. It wouldn't save himself, but maybe it would keep Steve away from him a bit longer. He didn't know the kid, didn't owe him anything, but he's already helplessly watched enough people baring his likeness die. 

Paul thinks that he'd really wanted to do his face one last time - oh well. 

There's a soft whir, a click, then a loud crackling sound. Crossbones bellows and drops him, claws wildly at something on its back. As he spins to face his attacker (a petite, curvy redheaded woman dressed in a skintight black jumpsuit with a utility belt and heeled boots like some kind of stripper superhero) Paul can see the metal disc stuck to its gray flesh just above the low back neckline of its sleeveless shirt, little blue licks of electricity there. There's a _whump whump_ noise and Crossbones stumbles back slightly, an arrow in each eye, as the woman gracefully backflips away to the landing just past the big staircase. 

She comes to rest beside a not-unattractive guy with a bow and arrow, her wrist immediately coming up to aim the cuff strapped there at her enemy as the archer draws back again. Crossbones runs at her blindly, tearing the shafts from its eyes as it advances, but two blurred figures fly up from the ascending stairwell. Other than appearing female, they look more like the gray guy upstairs once Paul gets a good eye full - which is to say built and attractive a.f. if you got past the weird complexions and the long double canines and the insane glowing eyes. 

One ducks low behind Crossbones legs as the other lands between it and the wall and dropkicks him over her partner off the mezzanine. It's a move more than one set of jerks had used to knock Paul over in high school and it's almost funny. Almost. 

Buck rushes out of the hole Crossbones had come from moments before, eyes Paul who is scrambling to get Steve in his grip again, then turns his glowing gaze to Nat and Clint. 

"Take them and go!" he gestures towards the Steves, both fake and real, before running to the edge of the mezzanine and leaping over the banister into the fight below.


	91. How much is that doggy in the window?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang's resources are split.

"Is there another way out?" Nat demands.

The bottle-blonde man again clutching their friend just stares up at her and Clint, still more than a bit shell-shocked after his brush with death. 

"Who the fuck is this guy? Second runner up at a Stevie lookalike contest?" Clint snaps his fingers at Paul several times to break his daze. "Hey! Dude! **Is... there... another... way out?** It's turned into Immortal Kombat down there." 

As he says it, a huge crash echoes through the palatial home and they see a marble column topple over, the slam of into the far side of the mezzanine deafening.

"Th -" Paul starts and stops - fuck, his throat is sore from getting choked - and then finally settles on shaking his head.

Clint raises his bow, arrow ready, as he hears motion - Jasper limps out of the hole in the wall. He's missing his glasses and one of the eyes that should be behind them, blood cascading down his face from the open socket and his shattered nose. His left arm is torn from the shoulder joint, just dangling uselessly, his right still clutching the huge rifle. Below, the destruction of furniture and walls fills the air. 

"Is...is he safe?" Sitwell queries Paul.

"He's the same," the bottle-blonde returns. "Look, there's not another way down from this section of the house. There were servants stairs but he had them removed." He gestures to the looped climbing rope and grapple on Clint's belt he'd taken from the gear at the facility. "We could go out a window." 

"This won't reach halfway to the ground this high up," the archer responds, snatching up his walkie. "Luis, what's the truck situation looking like?" 

"Didn't run into any trouble. A lot of the Xers are busy trying to put out the fire. Greta and Monet really lit the place up. I found something and I'm headed your way!" 

"How big is it?" the archer queries.

"You know how big it is," comes over the walkie.

"Heh heh heh," Clint chuckles before turning serious. "Hey!" 

"Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood. It's a refrigerator truck. The box is pretty large." 

"_That's what she said._ There's a window, second floor, southeast corner of the building. I need you to get right under it. You'll see me." 

"On my way!" 

Clint puts his walkie back on his belt.

"We need to go down a flight," Clint offers the rest.

He uses the string to sling his bow around his chest, over the quiver on his back, scoops up Steve and heads to the staircase. Paul rises to gingerly offer support to Jasper, Natasha taking his huge weapon. She checks it, raises it, ready to provide cover as they descend. From this new vantage, they can see that the first floor is utterly destroyed - chunks of marble, wood, furniture and plaster everywhere, blood spatter both purple and black on the walls and floors.

They can see Red out the massive front windows, knelt down in combat firing stance behind two cars angled nose to nose in a V - Luis had ordered him and the other Soldiers to push the vehicles in front of the entrance steps as a barricade then the others to attack Crossbones while the big ginger took out any Xers who approached. He's doing so with ruthless efficiency; Luis has brought an entire bag of weapons from the Soldier facility and the second one automatic weapon is empty Red is reaching for another, still firing with the one in his other hand. Rumlow's own paranoia led to him sealing the other entrances and removing the fire escape. That meant there was no other way in than the front short of his soldiers scaling the building and going in a window.

The fighting inside has moved into a side room, the loud crashes and thuds of superhumans hitting and throwing one another - punctuated with growls - are quite audible. For a brief moment it seems Clint and the others will slip to the second floor unseen. Then the smaller Soldier, Ramos, flies into the foyer, crashing into a huge wooden table - large broken pieces impaling her and purple blood pouring out. Crossbones is pursuing her in seconds. The movement on the stairs catches his eye as they turn off onto the second floor mezzanine headed to the southeast hallway, Nat bringing up the rear so she has the highest vantage over the others' heads, rifle ready.

"**MINE!**" Crossbones screams, running to the stairs, leaping towards the second floor landing. "Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!" 

Natasha shoots repeatedly in the joint of his ankle, assuming they must at least be softer than the attached bones to provide mobility. Rumlow is not nearly as graceful or fast as Buck, but he's still very quick, very coordinated, and he couldn't do that without flexible cartilage. When he lands, his lower leg bends at a sickening angle, foot going sideways beneath him as the shredded joint and flesh tear. He stumbles, momentum barreling him into the wall past the landing. Behind her, Clint is already dropping Paul out the window on the rope, the grapple end anchored around the thick leg of a massive piece of furniture as he quickly hand-over-hand lowers the small man. Someone will need to be at the bottom to help Jasper down then both of them will need to hold and untie Steve after - the archer, being far stronger, volunteers to run the rope. 

The assassin empties the huge gun into Crossbones' eyes when he emerges, but she's quickly empty. Nat's right arm flies up as she swings the rifle down with her left and she shoots another electro-disc into his neck as he emerges, then another when he swiftly rips it out - both slow him only briefly and she doesn't have any more. Whirling, she swings the huge weapon like a club by the barrel and smashes the huge stock across his face - it breaks to pieces, her hands and arms throbbing painfully with the vibration.

"Romanov," he grins.

"Rumlow," she deadpans back, sounding terribly bored and rolling her eyes.

"It's too late. He already belongs to me, body and soul." His eyes flick to the end of the hallway, to Clint tying Steve securely to the grapple line.

His smile broadens as his gaze shifts back to her, shark-like teeth on full display, eyes glowing like taillights even in the afternoon sun. 

"I know someone who would disagree," she offers, catching familiar movement in her peripheral.

Buck crashes into Crossbones, smashing him through the wall behind and into an adjoining room. Nat runs to Clint, helps him lower Steve faster. Sitwell is ready on the top of the truck, reaching up to steady the blonde, positioning him to drop onto his good shoulder as Paul unties him. He falls with a heavy thud, Jasper going down on one knee but managing not to fall off the side with the bottle-blonde's quick aid. The assassin slides down the rope expertly seconds later, the archer hesitating - gaze trained to look for Buck and seeing Ramos and Washington leaping onto the landing to come to his aid - then following. 

Clint is off the box and onto the ground in seconds, helping the others lower Steve. He insists Paul and Jasper jump, one at a time, and he catches them. The archer loads them in the refrigerator box quickly, notices the Valkyrie's corpse there partially wrapped in a tarp as he shuts and latches the door. Nat is still on the roof, pistols ready - she gives him a nod. He speeds to the cab, jumping in and closing the door in a swift motion. 

"Go!" the archer barks, but Luis is already stepping on the gas; Clint pulls his walkie, "Win, we found alternate transpo but Two-Three and the other grays are still engaged. They'll need you to wait as long as you can. Is your position compromised?" 

"Negative. No sign of hostiles. Waiting for Soldier extraction. Over," she calmly responds. 

"We'll meet you at the rendezvous. Keep your eyes peeled!" Clint insists with concern - he's not happy about continuing to leave her alone, with no backup, but he knows going to her with Steve could draw Crossbones if he escapes the mansion.

"Copy. What's Captain America's status?" She's obviously trying to tamp down the fear in her voice. 

"He's with us. He's alive. I've got Black Widow, Four Eyes, the Green Eyed monster and a friendly with us." 

"Copy, that Hawkeye." 

"Hold that for me," Luis demands.

Clint brings it to his face, presses the button so he can speak. "Red, this is Luis. Protect Buck." 

"Affirmative, Luis," the big Soldier answers, rising up, shooting the last few Xers nearby, returning the walkie to his utility belt, then rushing inside. 

Crossbones is in brutal hand to hand combat with the other Soldiers. Buck smashes a huge, heavy wooden chair over his head but it just splinters to nothing - Ramos and Washington kick Rumlow in the stomach simultaneously and he flies back, Red rushing in to grapple him around the waist and slam him to the marble flooring connected to the base of a huge fireplace. He grips his enemy's head by the sides, smashes it down again and again to no avail until Crossbones' legs come up, grip Red and throw him off. 

Buck flies at Crossbones, smashing his metal fist into different points on its face looking for a weak spot. Its flesh rips easily enough, but the bones beneath will not budge. Crossbones catches his fist, squeezes, and for a second the brunette Soldier thinks it may actually be crushed as the pressure builds on the meat and tendons inside. The shell holds and Buck counterpunches with his flesh hand into its windpipe as Red fires his weapon into its eye sockets. 

Crossbones stumbles back, laughs as its orbs grow back, its face knits together, trachea reinflates. 

"I can do this all day," it offers as Red fires into its face until he's empty, the brunette Soldier grabbing a heavy, silver serving tray off a nearby table - the enemy looks at Buck pointedly. "Sweetie-pie doesn't love you. You're a means to an end, just like my friend, who he turned against me. The Doc fixed that, made Jack loyal again, and you assholes took him from me a second time. But you won't take Steve from me. No matter where they go with him, I'll follow. We're bonded now, forever."

"I am more Jack Rollins than that thing upstairs," Buck offers. "I would die for Steve just the same." 

"You've got Rollins' _bleeding heart_ in you alright. I'm gonna enjoy ripping it out and eating it." Crossbones gestures at them with both hands. "Bring it on, motherfuckers!" 

Red's limiter is lower than he's ever been allowed in the field or anywhere unrestrained, and this is the longest he's been left below seventy percent. There's something, some glimmer of the past at the enemy's words, at Buck, Ramos and Washington getting into position around him. It's less a visual recollection and more sensation, muscle memory, sound.

"Alley oop," the big ginger Soldier says to his brethren.

The others freeze, look to him, then there's a shared expression of recognition, something dragged from the depths in each of them. They run at Crossbones simultaneously, Red getting him around the hips, big body against his legs as Ramos grabs one of the enemy's arms and Washington the other, Buck burying one of the long sides of the tray into the center of Crossbones' throat with both hands as he leaps on him, knees slamming into the enemy's chest. 

Together they tackle the enemy, pin him down, don't allow him more than the slightest movement even as he writhes desparately. He's stronger than any one of them, but not stronger than all of them. Buck raises the tray, black blood cascading off its edge, and slams it down into Crossbones' throat, severing windpipe, muscle, tendon, vocal chords. Instead of the resounding thud and bounce back they expect when it slams against his spine, it wedges in. 

The brunette Soldier's ice blue, glowing eyes go wide and he holds the tray in place with his flesh hand, slams the length of his metal forearm and fist against the top edge. As he watches the tray sink infinitesimally further in with each wild strike, his eyes turn bright white. He can see them reflected in Crossbones', as their red glow fades to maroon.

The thing that was Brock Rumlow looks afraid.

There's the sudden sound of the silver tray against hard marble and Buck grabs the handles on either end, pulls up. Crossbones' head and the upper half of his neck rip free from his body, a disc connecting two of the vertebrae severed. For a minute its still flailing beneath them, then it finally goes still. The head blinks, jaw moving uselessly like a dying fish. 

The brunette Soldier pats the body down, finds a jackknife and lighter he recognizes as Steve's, but nothing else of value. He yanks down Crossbones' pants, revealing his penis is just a withered nub - most of the fleshy tube must have burned away when Steve lit him on fire those years ago. Buck slices what's left of it and his testicles off. He stands, pulls the beheaded corpse into the huge fireplace as he demands gasoline from Red. The big ginger grabs a vase, runs outside, returns minutes later with gas collected from the barricade cars by punching a hole in their tanks with his fist. 

Buck douses Crossbones' body with the fuel, takes out the lighter, hesitates. The thought of fire sparks a deep, primal fear but he pushes it away and lights up a piece of fabric torn from one of the destroyed sofas. When it is near fully engulfed in his metal hand, he tosses it onto the gas-soaked corpse. He slides to the ground, exhausted, and watches Brock Rumlow burn. 

Red returns with more fuel when asked and Buck haphazardly throws it into the fire. It flares huge as some of the liquid spills on his foot, singeing his pantleg and lighting up his boot. Red quickly puts out the flames with his hands and then the two men look at each other for a long time as the light burns on the ginger slowly heal. The recognition - the connection - there is strong, even if Buck cannot place its source. 

There is movement outside, voices and scents carried in on the breeze. Xer reinforcements. He gives all of the Soldiers their words, orders them to go feed. Gunfire and screams fill the air as he stabs at the burning pile that was Crossbones with the fireplace poker. He watches until the melted fabric and bubbling flesh turn paper-dry and then crumble from the bones beneath.


	92. Mister Rumlow, bring me a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang and their new allies regroup and Paul gives some potential insight on Steve's condition.

The gang, Soldiers and freed people meet up at the rendezvous without incident. If anyone attempted to follow, they were unsuccessful, but more than likely the chaos at the Xer settlement and their very crispy leader had distracted them. Win has not even brought the Claptrappers' truck to a complete stop before Buck is jumping out of the cab. Clint is sitting on the back of one of the freed people's open vehicles, cradling Steve, with Luis and Nat sitting on either side in silence. The petite man is still wrapped in Crossbones' blanket because there was nothing else available, his sea-blue eyes still open, still empty. It's clear the archer is desperately choking down his emotions, lips quivering, eyes shiny. He's talking to Steve like he's awake, forcing a pleasant tone, but his voice cracks and shakes. 

"Look who it is, S-stevie. Bucky's here. All in...all in one piece." 

Buck quickly takes the little mechanic, holds him like one would a sleeping child being carried to bed, but a bit higher, nestling Steve's face against his neck. He presses his cheek to the blonde's forehead as a full body shudder visibly goes through him. The Soldier lifts and tilts his head, his own gaze met only with a vacant one as he looks down at his boyfriend's face. Win is there moments later frowning, reaching out to run her fingers through the thick blonde hair. Buck already - haltingly and with great effort - explained to her what they believed was done to Steve. 

"I will...get him cleaned and dressed," the Soldier says softly. 

They silently watch him enter the Claptrappers' truck with Steve, closing the door once they're inside. It opens a few minutes later long enough for the charcoal bedding to be chucked out with obvious malice.

Win turns to Nat and Clint, brow scrunching with anger. "Where the fuck were you?!" she demands. "**You were supposed to protect him!!**" 

Clint's self-control crumbles and he starts to loudly sob, burying his face in his hands. Nat looks to Luis in quiet desperation, raises her eyebrows as their eyes meet, then jerks her head at Clint. It's a clear _do something_. The younger man pulls the archer against him, both arms slipping around the older man as he totally breaks down. His bawling is muffled against the smaller man's shoulder, his own broader ones heaving. 

"Estara bien, estara bien," Luis whispers as he moves to pet his hair. "Shhhhh." 

Win's expression goes soft, sympathetic, regretful. She crouches down in front of Clint and hugs him around the waist, puts her face against his chest - there's wet streaks on her cheeks when she silently looks up at Nat. The assassin is frozen in place, uncomfortable with the whole display and unsure how to react. After a minute the welder reaches out and unceremoniously grabs Nat by the front of her bodysuit, pulling her into their heap. The redhead sighs, but allows it, eventually putting an arm loosely around her husband's back, hand coming to rest on Luis, her other hand on the smaller woman's shoulder. They can't linger here - Nat gets the other Claptrappers moving, planning and organizing how to proceed with the freed. 

A brief meeting about the vehicles determines they'll keep them all, even the fridge truck. It's half-full of produce and raw meat collected that morning as tribute from other settlements. Their band can hardly turn down food with so many now in the caravan and a finite amount of non-perishables hoarded in the trucks the former slaves had taken. Luis and Win both expect Nat and Jasper to protest taking the freed along to the hotel and especially to Claptrap, but the assassin doesn't have it in her to argue now and Sitwell seems disinterested in being involved at all. He's mentally and physically _done_, just staring blankly into space with his remaining eye as he sits in the dirt. Paul hesitantly goes to him, not sure what to say, just making sure he doesn't pass out and offering him some water.

Luis uses the Soldiers words, whispering them softly in their ears to keep them to himself. He directs them to heal the injured, giving them as much as is safe for the more severe cases. Red takes position on top of the refrigerator truck, Ramos and Washington posting up on the freed's trucks to be lookouts as they travel. The grays are restocked with weapons from the facility and flush with blood from their final battle in front of the mansion; it's a weight off Luis' mind that they're all fully operational. He leaves their limiters at sixty percent, allowing them more freedom to make decisions for the safety of the group without him right next to them to give precise orders. Nat takes watch in the crow's nest on the Claptrappers' truck, Win back in the driver's seat after the two of them and Clint finished arming the humans from what the freed took at the armory. 

Buck has no part in any of this. He washes Steve carefully, heals his bite marks, slips clean clothes on him. He wraps him in a comforter from the hotel, sits him sideways across his lap so the blonde's head rests in the dip where the Soldier's flesh arm meets his chest, below his collar bone. The blonde's legs are bent up, the side of the left one pressed to the bigger man's stomach, his feet on Buck's left thigh now in the thickest socks the bigger man could find in any of their bags - they had felt so cold and he is clammy in general, pulse and breathing slow. The Soldier wraps his flesh arm around the little mechanic as far as he can, across his back, curled over his ribs, hand coming to rest on his right knee. 

He strokes Steve's face with his metal hand, remembering what Steve had said at their campsite the first time he had let Buck put his arm around him from behind - that he should use the silver one so he knows it is the Soldier. Perhaps the feel of it will be comforting, safe, let Steve know Buck is there. The blonde's eyes remain open, though they are dull and vacant, other than the occasional reflexive flutter of his lids. He's completely limp, not at all reactive to any of the Soldier's words or movements. Clint and Paul climb in when it is time to go, giving him sympathetic looks - they have a dazed Jasper in tow, a strip of cloth tied around his head to hide his empty socket. 

The Soldier desperately wishes for the blonde to wake up, but he does not. Not as Buck clutches him to his chest and begs him out loud to come back. Not as Clint strokes his hair, talking to him quietly while choking back fresh tears.

"How?" Buck finally demands of Paul after a long silence. "How did you wake after Crossbones _fed_ you?" 

"I broke myself out of the... nightmare or illusion or whatever it was. Well, not me exactly. Paula." 

"Paula?" Clint queries.

"My drag alter ego. Paula Poundbone." 

"Ohhh like the comedian. My grandmother loved her. That's a _hilarious_ dragqueen name, but I don't...really follow," Clint offers. 

"I..." Paul huffs, runs his hands over his face. "I really don't want to talk about it. And I have no idea how it would help Steve anyway. He can't hear us, see us, nothing. It's not like I can tell _him_ what happened." 

"Please tell me," Buck begs. "Please." 

The way he holds the petite body even tighter to his chest as he rocks him gently, looks down at him with his eyes wet with unspent tears, triggers something in the bottle-blonde. He swallows hard, lips pressed into a pale line. 

"My husband and I were both lucky enough to be immune. And to like the great outdoors. We used to joke about what butch lesbians we were." He smiles, but it's sad, almost cynical. "We had all this gear, even a few rifles, and the first sign of shit getting bad we loaded up the SUV and just...headed out in the woods. We lasted a long time, after the collapse. Years. Moving place to place avoiding people, scavenging, hunting, fishing. Then..." He looks at his hands, twisting at Sitwell's thin and now filthy sweater. "Then a group of Crossbones scouts came across us, in the woods, surrounded us. One of the guys said I was...cute...and he said all this sexual stuff to me while the others egged him on. When he tried to put his hand on my face, I punched him. It was just a gut reaction."

Paul breathes out slow, gets up and goes to a box of supplies he'd noticed. He pulls out a bottle of vodka one of the others had grabbed from the hotel, shows it to Clint as he raises his brows - the archer nods his permission. The bottle-blonde takes a big swig, starts to cap it, thinks better of it, takes another, then returns to his spot on the floor next to Sitwell with it still in his hand. 

"Sorry, saw that earlier when I was being nosey. Anyway, I slugged the guy. Broke his nose. I should have just...did what he wanted, but I...He hit me back, really hard and Harry went at him. Two people restrained me while the guy and a bunch of others attacked him. Harry was a big guy, strong, used to be a pro wrestler. He fought back hard, really wailed on a few of them, so they... the guy stabbed him, more than once, until he was on the ground and couldn't get up. Then he....forced me....while the others held me down... and the rest cheered him on. And the whole time... I watched Harry bleed to death." 

His face twists, but he holds back the threatening breakdown, just moves his free hand up quick to flick away stray tears, takes another swig from the bottle. Buck and Clint are staring, wide-eyed, horrified. Even Sitwell's blank face has come back to life, a small grimace blooming there. 

"Whatever state Crossbones put me in, I lived those moments again and again and again. Dozens of times. Hundreds maybe. Every time after the first I thought, this time I'll stop them. This time I'll save him. But it ended the same every time, no matter what I did. Harry dead, me tied up and led off to slavery. I thought to myself, _I'm too weak, too helpless, too small_. And Harry was always going to be a threat to them. This was the only _realistic_ way it was ever gonna end. Then I realized, this _isn't reality_."

Buck makes a curious face at the smaller man's change in tone. 

"Paul is weak. Paul is helpless and small. But Paula, Paula gives no fucks. She towers over her enemies. In my mind, she's an amazon woman. Fearless. Unstoppable. Paula was invented to protect Paul. So the next time the memory started to replay, I went to the truck before they came again and I got my kit, and I did my face. I put on my biggest wig and my highest platforms and when they came, Paula mopped the forest floor with them. It was a bloodbath." 

His mouth quirks up in an almost cocky smile, head slightly tilting from side to side in a quick, little motion, but after a bit his face softens. 

"Harry was finally safe and unlike in the real world, I got to say goodbye. And now, that's how I think of him. At that beautiful spot in the woods, next to the river, fishing, waiting on me to come back from my trip. I knew I couldn't stay there with him, I knew it wasn't _real_, I knew that _thing_ had me. So I left and the further I walked, the more I felt the dream fading out and reality fading in until I woke up. I found out I was only under a day, but it seemed like weeks." 

He lets out a long sigh, leans his head back against the box. His eyes slowly shift to Buck's. 

"I am sorry you had to endure something so horrible," the Soldier offers, barely above a whisper. "I can only say that Crossbones died afraid and in pain. The man...who hurt you... in the woods, do you know if he was killed today?" 

Paul huffs. "I didn't see him anywhere, no, that jackass. He's easy to spot. He has a skull tattoo on his face, a little one, right here." The bottle-blonde taps just above his right cheekbone. "Haven't seen him in a while. Small blessings. Didn't see the chooser either. The guy who...selects the _fake Steves_ for Crossbones' little menageries. Another total scumbag named Vullo." 

Clint grins, starts laughing. Paul looks surprised, then affronted. The archer throws up his hands. 

"Sorry! Sorry! Vullo was in a group Crossbones sent after us. He's _very_ dead. And it was not quick. Stevie knew him too, _before_. They had unfinished business Bucky helped out with."

"_Before?_" Paul queries.

"Before Crossbones was that thing he was a former government secret ops guy named Brock Rumlow, with a much tinier army but no less assholery." 

"And Steve was his captive," Paul responds - it's both a question and not. "The one that got away."

"Yeah, Stevie doesn't take well to being told what to do. He built a suitcase bomb and blew _Rumhole_ and his lieutenants up. The fucking crotch didn't have the decency to die apparently, even after being blown up, stabbed and lit on fire. Like that Russian guy. Raspooter? Stevie set his munitions truck up to blow too and took off, killed a bunch of his dudes. Some of Rumhole's people must have gotten him out before the second explosion or there'd be nothing left. Then Zola did....something to him."

"That explains the mostly missing cock," Paul muses. "Sorry, TMI."

"Zola must have altered some of his men too," Jasper finally chimes in. "I recognized both of those creatures from the fight with the drinkers. We killed one of them - Jack Rollins - inside the mansion." 

"It is unfortunate he had to die. He and Steve were very close once," Buck offers.

Jasper looks over at him after he says it. "I'll take full responsibility for that, if you want. In case Steven is...upset about it." 

"Wow, way to be a glory hog, Welly," Clint chuckles. 

"He did destroy it," Buck insists, turning to the archer. "He protected me." 

"Oh, well. Good job, Wel - "

"Don't call me Welly." Jasper scowls. 

Paul turns to look at Sitwell, now wearing his spare glasses, and offers him a cocky smile. "I guess we could call you _two eyes_ instead." The smaller man laughs at Sitwell's glower, but when he offers the vodka, the ex-ops takes it. "It's okay, Jasper. You'll look very tough with an eye patch. All the twinks will love it."

Sitwell's cheeks redden as he takes a swig from the bottle, swallowing down his old urge to deny or deflect. He'd just risked everything, and given up half his sight, to rescue a very petite, pretty, younger man. It was a bit late to pretend he didn't have a type. 

"The big lady Soldier got one of the other zombievamp things, and me and Nat a third." The archer makes a finger gun at Jasper, but his heart isn't in it.

"That's pretty badass," Paul concedes, offering the vodka to Clint, who shakes his head. "I've heard there's others," he adds. "Other...creatures. Not exactly like them, and not smart like Crossbones, but dangerous. Housed in the old vet facility."

"That went up in a puff of smoke though, thanks to Monet." Clint shoots a wary look at Buck. "Sorry, big guy. I knew you took to her." 

"Oh fuck, is she how you got in? Good kid. Hated seeing her get given to Vullo. We used to get put on a lot of the same tasks before he _chose me_. You're sure she didn't make it?" 

"The place went blooey and she never showed back up. You do the math," Clint says sardonically. 

"She was very brave," the Soldier finally offers. "As were all of you. Thank you." He looks straight at Paul as he says it. 

"Well, your friend did sort of...save me from a life of being a suck slave so...it's the least I can do." 

"Friend," Buck repeats, looking at Sitwell, who swallows again - despite no longer having any vodka in his mouth - and nods. 

Clint makes a bed on the floor with comforters and pillows from the hotel, cajoles the Soldier into laying down with Steve after the big man's exhaustion becomes more and more obvious. He joins them on the blonde's other side, putting an arm around his tiny waist. "I love you, baby brother. Please come back," only Buck hears the archer whisper.


	93. Got you where I want you, again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no place like home.
> 
> ***Extra trigger warnings - rape, suicide, death by superflu***

The first thing Steve hears is the hail of shrapnel on the trees. He stumbles from behind the big oak, expecting carnage, but something is off immediately. There's no one around the fire at all but the big man laying on the ground in his own blood. Where did they all go? 

The form is Jack, shredded to pieces, holes through his body as Steve rolls him over. The scarred man's death is fast in the grand scheme of such things, nothing like the slow horror of the blonde's mother gasping for air as her lungs gave out and the fever burned through her, but it's still agonizingly long. 

He takes his friend's big, clammy hand, waits for the end he knows is coming. Jack's eyes close on their own. It's almost peaceful and for a moment there's quiet, just crickets in the grass in the still of the early evening and the bonfire crackling nearby. The big man's lids reopen suddenly, his orbs gone black and dull like some deep sea creature. 

Jack's skin turns wan, then gray, then a sickening, sludgy shade. Steve scrambles backwards as the big man sits up, baring a mouth full of hideous, jagged teeth. The blonde's hand lands in something warm and wet - he lifts it to find his fingers stained deep red. 

Looking over his shoulder, he sees a familiar shape. Clint is slumped back over a log beside the fire, lifeless body shoved full of his own arrows. Something glinting in the firelight catches the mechanic's attention - he turns to see the Valkyrie's corpse, cut in half, flames reflecting off the metal strips in her body. A few feet away is Natasha, her heart torn out and laying in her lap, next to her Jasper, guts strewn across the grass. Greta and Monet's bodies are sprawled nearby, riddled with bullet holes. Steve can't even make a noise, his shock and horror choking him as he looks between the corpses again and again, forgetting everything else, all awareness focusing to a single train of thought. 

They lost. Crossbones won. It's all his fault. He got them all killed.

Turning towards Jack's and Brock's trucks, he sees the Claptrappers' vehicle parked next to them. The back is open - Luis' gutshot corpse lays sprawled across the box floor. Steve runs to the driver's door, opens it. Win's body falls out, throat ripped open, eyes dead. He lets out a shocked, guttural sob, wildly clutches her to his chest. 

An explosion draws his attention - he sees a flare in the near distance. It's the hill, it's Claptrap - it's burning. Orange and red reflect through the glass wall - the testament to all he's worked so hard to build - where it lays in broken heaps around the perimeter of the settlement. He hears gunfire and screams, can make some of them out, identify the voices as people he knows.

Violet is calling for her mother.

Steve frantically looks around for a weapon, anything so he can go help her, help all of them. Suddenly the Jack-thing grabs him by the hair, starts to drag him away.

"Jack! Stop! Jack, please!" he begs, wriggling like a worm on a hook to no avail in the big man's iron grasp.

The blonde is dragged kicking and screaming to Brock's truck. The thing that waits there is both Crossbones and Rumlow - its face is handsome, dark hair full, olive skin unmarred, but its eyes are maroon and when it smiles its teeth are like a shark.

"Sweetie-pie. You should know by now I can't be stopped. I always get what I want."

Did he find the asset, take the serum? Is that what he means? 

Rumlow palms himself through his jeans, smile broadening. The Jack-thing picks Steve up and slams him against the box of Brock's truck. A big hand yanks down his pants.

"Buck! Buck!" Steve screams, tears flowing freely now even as he fights viciously with all he has to escape.

"_Buck! Buck!_" Brock mocks him, grabbing his neck, the Jack-thing moving to the side but still holding one arm at a painful angle. "He didn't follow you with the others. He ran away. Abandoned you." The monster leans in closer. "You meant nothing to him. Just a warm hole."

Brock's breath is as fetid and hot on his face as it's ever been as the bigger man forces himself inside Steve with no warning. The blonde screams in pain and Rumlow immediately starts thrusting, slow but steady and hard, dry, tearing him apart as he grunts like an animal.

"It's just me and you, Sweetie-pie....errrr.... Forever. No one else will ever want you.....errrr... You're unlovable. Blown out. Used.... errrr... Useless, weak, little queer! ....ehhhrrrr... Only good for getting bent over.... Ehhr! Ehhr! Ehhhhhhhhhhrrrr!!!!" 

There's the sickeningly familiar feeling of hot release shooting inside him, the rough, abrupt pull out, the disgusting feel of the thick liquid running out of him and down his thighs. Even with Steve sore and humiliated, the bullheaded voice speaks up to mock his attacker. 

**I see being superhuman didn't improve his stamina.**

Steve violently pushes the voice away. It told him he could _win_ or at least that he could go out in a blaze of glory and take Crossbones/Rumlow with him. _Liar_ the voice always said about everyone, even Jack. And look how much the big man sacrificed for him - his heart, his loyalties, his life. The peace of death even denied him now. 

But the voice was the liar. If it wasn't, the Jack-thing wouldn't have both of his arms pulled painfully behind him as Brock bound his wrists with wire. If it wasn't, Steve wouldn't be getting dragged to the worst place imaginable - the back of Brock's truck. If it wasn't, he wouldn't be getting hurled inside the box.

"Sit in your mess, slut," Brock says before slamming the door, sealing Steve in darkness, in the old familiar stench of sweat and stale sex and gun oil and the musky scent that would be appealing on anyone else but was disgusting coming from Rumlow.

"**Let me out!**" the mechanic screams over and over until he's hyperventilating, until he passes out.

The sound of shrapnel like hail against the trunks makes him open his eyes, heavy oak at his back.

It plays out again and again and again. Is it dozens of times? Hundreds? Jack. The gang. Brock. The truck. Darkness. The briefest second of nothing. Hail on the trees. When he finally tries to change things, resists the insistent urge to just follow the same old script, the details change but the outcome is ultimately the same.

He tries running into the woods, but the Jack-thing catches him, beats him when he resists. It drags him out of the forest, past the corpses of his friends, straight to Rumlow. Brock takes him again against the truck, puts him in the box, sticky and cold, where he ultimately passes out from the pain and bloodloss. 

Hail on the trees. 

He tries running straight at the fire to grab a burning branch once the big man's eyes shut, sets Jack aflame before his reanimated body can even sit up. To his dismay, it's _just Jack_ wrenching off the ground, screaming and burning black, not a monster at all. Rumlow catches Steve in his distraction, attacks, drags him to the truck, fucks him just the same as every other time, locks him in the back.

Darkness.

Pain.

Nothingness.

Hail against the trees.

When he tries to use fire again, lighting Brock up instead, the bigger man just laughs as he's engulfed. He grabs Steve, takes him rough all the same as they both burn, their smoldering bodies going out after he finishes. The mechanic's scorched form is thrown in the truck.

Darkness.

Pain.

Nothingness.

Hail against the trees.

He doesn't move from the oak, takes out his (Jack's) pocketknife, slits his own throat. The Jack-thing drags him to Brock as he bleeds out. Rumlow's arousal doesn't flag as Steve gurgles. The mechanic's life runs out of him on the cold metal floor of the cargo box in the black.

Hail against the trees.

The thought goes through Steve's head over and over that he can't stop the monster. He couldn't stop him as Brock Rumlow or as Crossbones and he certainly can't stop him as this thing, somehow both of those entities but even more terrifying, more indestructible. Steve fights anyway, tries everything he can possibly think of. It's always the same ending. 

When the bullheaded voice tries to speak up, he silences it. It was never any help before - only led him down the worst paths. Made him distrust Jack, his friends, even Buck. They were all gone and he was utterly alone. What help could it be now?

One time he runs straight to Claptrap, he sees the shot up, burning corpses of his friends and neighbors, of Fury. The Jack-thing brings Violet out, halting him in his tracks. She cries and screams for Steve. Brock grabs him and makes him watch the creature kill the girl.

Dragged. Truck. Forced. Box. Darkness. Gone.

Hail against the trees.

Sometimes he screams for Buck again and again as he runs wildly, zig-zagging through the forest. The Jack-thing always catches him, always takes him back. The Soldier never appears. He was right all along. Brock was right. Who could ever want him? Broken, used up, weak, useless. Why would someone so powerful and beautiful and good want him? A feral runt two steps away from being as crazy as his tormentor, as guilty. 

_You know that's not true,_ he hears the encouraging, logical voice say. He wills it to shut up. It was as useless as his other extreme, letting him believe he was worth more, able to give more. More lies. 

Buck had what he needed now - a comrade, an equal, someone who understood him. He was probably somewhere with the big ginger Soldier right now. Maybe the other Soldiers had gone to join them too. Buck had his new family, maybe even a new lover. What did he need Steve for? Steve who would grow old and wither and die. Steve who needed so much time and coaxing to even be physical, still was uncomfortable with so much, didn't reciprocate so many things. Steve who had so little left to offer emotionally. 

_Your love was all he wanted. It was more than enough._

He stuffs it down, chokes it off. No more wishful thinking. No more bullshit. 

Dragged. Truck. Forced. Box. Darkness. Gone.

Hail against the trees.

One time he tries a different route, a place where the woods look thinner, like they open onto something. He goes quietly this time - Buck isn't coming after all. If there's no winning, maybe there's hiding. 

Steve stumbles from the trees onto the grounds of his subsidized housing complex in Brooklyn. The monster is pursuing him, so he runs inside, despite his whole body feeling like it wants to clench into one giant fist and drop him balled up to the ground before he has to walk into this place.

"Crazy little shit," Frank Delino says from beneath his sheet in the stairwell as Steve runs past. "Lunatic. Whackjob."

"Deviant," Mr. Polanski's voice hisses from the cracked door of his family's apartment. "Not fit to be around children."

"You brought the bug here," Mark says from under his sheet near the shape of his father. 

"He killed us, because you got mom sick," Sid chimes in from his own shroud next to his brother.

Steve hadn't let himself think about the boys in years, how when he'd come to check on them while his mom was nearing the end he'd found Mrs. Polanski dead in bed, her sons strangled on the living room floor, Mr. Polanski nearby with his wrists cut. 

He tries to push the voices away as he takes the key to the apartment from under the planter near the door, pushes it open, slams it and locks it. The blonde rests against the frame for a moment, sighs heavily. At least he's home. A home that isn't burning. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and the reek of a rotten body hangs heavy in the air. Still he hears her. 

"Steve, is that you?" Sarah Rogers calls. 

"Ma?" 

The mechanic knows it can't be her, remembers how long he held his ear to her chest praying for any sign of breath or a pulse, finding none despite how many times he'd performed CPR. Still, he goes to her room. Her body is there under the sheet, as he left her, and the smell is awful, overwhelming. Steve shuffles towards the bed anyway. 

"This is all your fault," Sarah Rogers offers in a cold, bitter voice he'd never once heard her use before. "Trudging in here with your dirty work clothes, touching everything with your unwashed hands. You gave it to me. You gave it to Mrs. Polanski. So many others. We died because of you. Because you were so stupid."

"I'm so sorry, ma. I didn't know. I didn't know the old lady was sick. Taj and me just wanted to help her. We didn't know. Please forgive me," Steve pleads. 

"Useless sickly little shit. I worked my hands to the bone to keep you alive! And for what? So you could embarrass me again and again? Little psycho! The other parents clutched their children when you walked by. More than once I got asked to homeschool you because the principal didn't want to deal with all your nonsense. Do you know how that made me feel? Being the mother of a lunatic? A pathetic, sad, lonely little queer with a small dog complex. Your father was right. Should have left you in the trash when you were a baby." 

He slams his lips together, steps backwards slowly, hits into a broad chest. A huge, strong hand clamps on his shoulder.

There's no escape. 

He hears hail.


	94. Give a little bit, give a little bit of your love to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang and the freed settle into the hotel.

"No! No, I can't. Haven't I suffered enough?" Clint whines, standing in the kitchen of the hotel penthouse. 

Buck glares at him, curls the fingers of the hand he is holding out, palm up, twice in quick succession. It's a clear _give it here_ signal. 

The gang had the freed moved into the hotel before the latest storm hit and some of the former cooks for the Xer settlement got to work immediately making food for the group from the raw stores brought off the refrigerator truck. The backup storage tanks for the stove and oven gas were massive, designed to stay operational if a natural disaster cut off normal gas lines and trapped guests in the building for an extended period. The Claptrappers had supplied the huge bag of rice and other dry goods found on their last visit as well, to pad the supply for the few days they would wait out the hurricane. If they weren't greedy, it would be more than enough without needing to break into the non-perishables taken from the Xer stores, which - along with the weapons - would go a long ways towards buying their new comrades entrance to Claptrap.

They'd scavenged enough battery operated lanterns and solar-charged lights from the building to put a few in each of the rooms and the hallways on the second and third floors. Now every room had light at least and the freed would not need to double up if they didn't want to. There had been discussion of turning the penthouse gym into a makeshift sleeping area since the upper floor had all its utilities, but people were eager for even a modicum of privacy, even if it meant giving up the creature comforts easily accessible on the top floor. Plus, none of them wanted to haul blankets, pillows and mattresses from the floor below or - more importantly - be so far from an exit. 

There were buckets placed on the first floor in several out of the way rooms and trash bags provided to line them with (which, once used could be tied off and tossed down the trash shoot) as well as a janitor's closet with a sink and sunken floor drain for the obvious necessities. It wasn't pretty, but it worked, and saved the long walk up to the penthouse, especially once people bedded down later. They were used to worse at the Xer settlement, some of them even being made to sit or work in their own waste. 

Natasha, with the help of the freed, had brought down a lot of wine from the penthouse's private wine walk-in along with a variety of entertainment options - books, board games, a holo-TV and digital storage box loaded with movies. The former slaves got busy celebrating in the dining hall on the first floor or their rooms, or watching whatever film was on in the first floor lounge, as the Claptrappers settled into their old stomping grounds to decompress and mourn in their own little group. A few of the freed drifted in and out of the penthouse, mostly wet from the pool or taking down baskets of fresh laundry. The gang had offered anyone who wanted could make the climb to use the recreational facilities, take a shower in the locker rooms or spare bedrooms, or wash their clothes. Personal hygiene wasn't really a possibility at the settlement either for all but the brothel workers.

Now operational with the temperature turned low, the wine cooler was housing some of the remaining perishable food and the Valkyrie's body, wrapped tight in a tarp and hidden from view. Luis had insisted, and Jasper had agreed, that there could be some way to reach whatever was left of her in all the tech her body contained or at the least copy her massive information storage harddrives. Red had carefully carried her up the second half of the stairs - he had insisted, Luis still his handler and his limiter set low enough he tried to anticipate the smaller man's needs. Luis was red faced and shaking with effort by then - Val was heavy for her petite size with all her augmentations. 

Despite all this sharing is caring attitude between the groups, the Claptrappers seemed to have an unspoken agreement they would not divulge the contents of the penthouse pantry to their new comrades. That was the locus of the current disagreement, as Clint clutched his coveted snack to his chest and shook his head. His lower lip is stuck out in a childlike pout that makes Nat role her eyes - some, though not her, would even say affectionately - as she sips a forty year old red, already in a fresh robe, hair still damp from the shower. 

"I assured him," Buck says, voice going from stern to almost pleading.

"But there might not be another one left in the whole world!" the archer whined.

"Clint," Luis chastises him pleasantly enough from where he's carefully shaving the tattered remains of Steve's beard off his still-vacant face, the smaller man laid out on the living room floor on and under thick comforters. "Steve would want you to give it to him." 

The archer huffs through his nose, looks down to his hands. "I'll always love you," he whispers before handing the small wheel of aged, wax-rinded cheddar over to Buck. 

The Soldier gazes at Steve momentarily as he passes, Luis catching eyes with him and offering a comforting little smile, before he goes to one of the bedrooms and knocks. Paul opens the door, fresh from the shower. It was already needed desperately, but it was worse after he'd gotten the green-eyed man to buzz his fake blonde hair off. He couldn't help but notice how good the sides of Luis' mohawk looked and asked him to do the deed with a pair of electric clippers he'd found. It left him with a short layer of black fuzz, making his features look more angular and striking, less soft like Steve's, and a lot of itchy hair stuck to his neck. 

The small man is in a pair of striped flannel pajamas that had been in one of the dressers for guests. He offers the Soldier a sad smile at his dejected expression. It turns into a look of surprise and then a wide grin as Buck silently offers him the cheddar cheese. He takes it and nods in thanks. 

"There's..." Clint sighs. "There's olives and stuff too...Paul." He hooks a thumb at the pantry door. "You...did help save Stevie. More than I can say for myself." 

The archer frowns, retreats to the chaise lounge in the livingroom to stew, looking out the floor to ceiling windows at the rapidly darkening sky and ravaged landscape. Luis and Nat trade looks, Win occupied holding Steve's hand and practically creasing her whole forehead up the middle with how tight her brows are drawn in; she hasn't left his side for a single minute since they arrived. This time the younger man raises his eyebrows at the redhead and tilts his head at Clint. 

Nat grimaces like she's tasted something bad, but finally goes over and sits on his lap. She gets her husband talking with inane questions about a run they'd been on to some podunk town that apparently involved Clint's mortal enemy, the opossum. It's both a blessing and a curse how distractable he is and he's laughing a bit soon enough. One person comforted (two probably, not that the assassin would ever admit she needed or felt such a thing), Luis looks over to Buck, now holding Steve's other hand.

"Why don't you give him a bath?" the young man suggests gently. "You could use one too. Relax a while." 

Luis rests his hand on Buck's flesh arm, tries hard to focus all his support and caring for the big man through the ever-present bond he feels with him. He doesn't know if that's what does it or not, but the Soldier slowly nods and takes the blonde into the master bedroom, closing the door. Win wipes the residue of a fresh tear from her face. The green-eyed man slides close, puts an arm around her back. 

"You should eat. _We_ all should go eat." 

"He could wake up while we're gone," she protests.

"Yes, and you don't want to scare him with the growling in your belly." He gives her a traffic-stopping smile. "Come on," he gestures to the married couple as well and they all hesitantly follow him down the stairs to eat from the small hotline laid out there and have a few drinks (except Clint, still teetotaling). 

The Soldier puts Steve in the dry bathtub alone at first, still wrapped in a blanket. He quickly showers in the floor to ceiling glass stall nearby, scrubbing himself down hard, getting all the blood and filth off. Buck is surprised to find his neck still a bit tender where the Jack-thing had bit him. Once the water swirling the drain is clear, he steps out, not bothering to dry off. He slides the blanket gently from Steve's body, carefully undresses him, fills the big tub with warm water up to the blonde's waist and adds liquid soap to it, swirling it gently with his hand. 

Buck washes and rinses the little mechanic's hair, scrubs his face, neck, even behind his ears, then moves to his arms, chest and back as he lets the blonde's lower half soak. A foul smell lingered on Steve there even though the bigger man had wiped him down in the truck, cleaning inky residue from his thighs, between his legs. Judging from the similar streaks on Paul he could guess - with a twist of his gut - what it was. Crossbones had testicles and enough of a penis to drain them with, even if it was too small and deformed to really enter someone. How quickly the thing must have set about violating the blonde, _using_ his body for all the types of pleasure it wanted. 

Pushing down the disgust and rage that nearly chokes him, Buck carefully washes Steve's belly, hips, legs and intimate areas. He uses his metal hand - warmed from the water - to hold the washcloth, unable to shake the idea it will let Steve know it is him. Anything that may make the blonde more comfortable if he is at all aware is important. That is why, after the Soldier lets the now gray-tinged soapy water drain out and rinses the little mechanic and tub with the extendable spout, he refills the bath with water that borders on too hot and slips in behind the little mechanic. He puts his legs to either side of Steve's, eases the narrow back against his chest and turns the jets on, recalling how much Steve had liked them. 

His mind floods with the memory of how relaxed they had both been as they drifted off to sleep here together before. How wonderful so much of their time in this place had been, the little mechanic sharing his feelings and his body in so many ways, gifts Buck had been humbled by, grateful for, eager to return. The Soldier cannot imagine taking sexual pleasure from touching someone who did not want it, hurting someone undeserving with his teeth on purpose again and again or causing them emotional torment, let alone _feasting_ on their suffering. Rare tears come to his eyes, not for the first time since Steve had entered this state. They are not only for his love - comatose in his embrace - but the countless others Crossbones had inflicted such torments on. 

If only Buck had killed him - _it_ \- that day outside the second facility. Massacred his (then much smaller) forces. He knows it is an illogical thought - all his tactical training tells him he would not have been able to beat Crossbones alone, especially without any knowledge of what it was or how its body worked, and backed by dozens of heavily armed fighters. Still, if he had succeeded, Steve would be safe in Claptrap right now. No Xer raiding parties. No pursuit of the Winter Soldiers. No murder and enslavement of dozens, including Monet and her family, Paul and his husband. No battle at the enemy settlement (Greta still alive), no Steve being captured, tortured, put in this awful state - not dead but not really alive. 

Realization hits him if he had died that day to end Crossbones, he and the little mechanic would have never met. Never fell in love. 

That thought hurts the Soldier, but he would trade everything - all the beautiful experiences and happiness he shared with Steve, his friends and new family, recovered memories of his first family, finding and freeing his brethren, even his life - for the blonde to be safe. It is too late for that. He failed to be there when the little mechanic needed him, failed to save him from this fate. 

Buck wants to be angry with the others as he was before, for going along with the wild plan and leaving the Soldier behind, but he sees how they are suffering. Even Natasha has something different in her posture, a well-hidden ache reflected in her otherwise blank eyes. Perhaps Buck was to blame for this as well. He should have followed Steve from the facility immediately, should have made it clear he would exact revenge on his behalf no matter the cost as he had so often considered before the little mechanic told him Brock was dead. Instead he had allowed the monster to force himself on and _in_ the blonde. 

And how had Crossbones got inside his victims' minds? How had he tampered with Paul's and forced him in his most painful memory, unleashed all his self-doubt and fear? It had taken days to reach the hotel from the Xer settlement and yet there had been no change in the little mechanic's condition, and if Paul were reliable (so far, he had been nothing but) the condition for many was permanent. What if Buck repeated the process, fed Steve his blood, used his pulse on him? Could he find his way in and more importantly, could he bring Steve out? 

The Soldier is hesitant to bite Steve - it is not without risk even under ideal circumstances - and he cannot ask the blonde if it is acceptable. Buck recalls the little mechanic requesting just that however, as the bigger man drained Vullo, offering his neck when they returned to the hotel. What other option was left? Soon they will have to feed him with a tube and they can barely get him to swallow water. The Soldier decides to take their previous conversation as tacit permission.

Buck lifts and turns the smaller man, positions him to straddle his lap. He kisses Steve softly on the lips, intensifies the pressure to form a seal, then bites his own tongue hard. He slides it into Steve's mouth, bleeding into him. Pulling away, he tilts the blonde's head back, gently rubs his throat until he reflexively swallows. 

"I love you. Please help me find you. Please come back." 

After a few moments, the Soldier drives his teeth into the little mechanic's neck.


	95. Hello, nurse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck tries to help Steve.

Steve tastes off somehow. Obviously after so much physical and emotional stress before the incident with Crossbones, and now without having eaten in several days, his flavor would reflect that. But there's something else, something both Steve and not Steve about it in the same way that the blonde's scent has been different since Crossbones _fed_ him and bit him. Still, the little mechanic's blood is sweet and hot, and Buck cannot resist the spike of pleasure when it spills into his mouth, the way the sensation increases as it starts to spread heat through his insides. 

The Soldier holds back a moan. This is not for enjoyment, he reminds himself, trying to suppress the sensations that flood in. He is unsure what to do, just focuses on putting his pulse into Steve, drinking slow and careful to allow them as much time as possible attached. How often had he dreamed or fantasized about this moment? His teeth in the soft little neck, Steve's warm, petite body pressed close, his pulse buried in the smaller man. 

As often as the Soldier's need had asked him for Steve, his want promising warmsoftcomfortcloseforget if he would just let himself feed properly, ultimately the thing he desired most was to please the smaller man and make him happy. The want had tried to use that against him so many times, telling Buck he could flood the little mechanic with ecstasy, drown out everything else for Steve, for both of them. The blonde was made to suffer so much. He deserved peace, to feel nothing but good, safe, relaxed, deeply bonded to someone who cared for him.

_Bonded._

The bond Buck felt with Luis had become so normal to him back in their apartment building, even as his terror at their intimacy grew, and he had quickly returned to that closeness once the green-eyed man was in his life again. The Soldier had experienced the presence of his friend's mind nearby in the same way one did sunlight - warm, comforting, but intangible, untouchable, hard to look at directly. He did not see or know Luis' inner workings so much as sense them. When the smaller man had touched him earlier, the emotions coming from him were strong, direct, like he was willing them at Buck. 

When the Soldier discovered how good it could be to have his heartbeat in Luis in that unique way, he had given himself over to the very different type of feeding completely, had held nothing back. The feel of their bodies together, his pulse throbbing through the other man, how relaxed and yielding Luis was, along with their mutual pleasure, had created and strengthened their bond. They were touching in a way that was more than physical - the Soldier would almost describe it as spiritual, though he is unsure he properly understands that word. Perhaps if Buck lets himself go - does not resist the pleasure he feels, lets his body behave naturally as it would with Luis, relaxing, reveling in the sensation of being against each other - he can direct that feeling to Steve, pull him to the surface. 

Buck stops trying to dull his senses, lets them wash over him, groans helplessly at how good it feels. Instead of holding Steve gingerly, he clutches him tightly, straightening his back and lifting Steve off his lap. He lets his pulse bury itself in the little mechanic deep, rocks him back and forth to the rhythm of it, willing everything he feels into Steve, opening himself totally to whatever may come back. His pulse pushes even harder into the smaller man, speeds up as if trying to match the blonde's, which is already so slow. 

That has never happened before. 

Suddenly their pulses sync together and the world simply ceases to exist. He feels only Steve, warm against him, delicate under his hands, the common beat of their pulses an overwhelming shockwave that nearly makes him black out. The pleasure is replaced with something else, a bone-deep pull to the other man that drowns out all his senses.

When he can _feel_ again, his body is gasping, his metal hand clutching a narrow shoulder, a little warm body against his chest, layers of clothes between them. Finally opening his eyes, he looks down into a thick shock of straw blonde hair. His sense of smell hits him next - death, rot. The stale awful stench of a corpse left to decay in a closed up space for months. Then his hearing returns. Hail against the windows. A voice, something about it like Steve's, but higher, laced with venom, spouting cruelty. 

The little mechanic jumps in his grasp, whirls on him. For a moment Buck sees nothing but the sea-blue eyes, filled with pain and fear and sadness. But _aware._

"B-Buck?" Steve manages after they just gape at each other for a long moment. 

"Hello, little mechanic," the Soldier breathes back, chest tight, a smile equal parts relief and terror on his face - as Clint would say, the smaller man looks like hell.

"Is this...is this a trick? Is Brock controlling you, like Jack?" the blonde queries, semi-hysterical, as he takes a step back. "It's been so long. Months maybe. I yelled for you again and again and you didn't come." Tears flow freely down his face, his lips trembling. "You abandoned me." 

"Never! I could not hear you. I...I called for you too. So many times." Buck's eyes spill over as well - he cautiously steps forward. "I came to take you home." 

Steve shakes his head violently. "I don't have a home," he croaks. "Everyone here I...I infected them. It's my fault they're dead. I destroyed this place. They don't want me here." 

"You do not know that. Anyone could have brought it here, several people even. The dead do not bare ill will," the Soldier offers softly.

"Where can I go? I lived here my whole life except the couple of months we spent in Queens when the building was closed." 

"You have a new home, Steve. In Claptrap, with me and our friends." Buck reaches out hesitantly.

"No! No, it's all gone!" Steve swings at the approaching hands. "They're all gone! Crossbones won, then he destroyed the town. It's all my fault." A sob wracks the blonde's body, his eyes red as he continues to pull away. "If I'd just kept pleasing him, not built the bomb, he wouldn't be Crossbones. He wouldn't care about the serum, he wouldn't want to hurt you, he wouldn't have killed the others." 

"Win and Nat and Clint and," Buck makes a quick decision not to let on Greta did not survive, "and the others are all safe. The town is safe. The asset is hidden. Jasper talked to Fury. He assured us." 

"I saw them dead! I saw Claptrap on fire!" the blonde screams, backing up farther, knocking over a table and sending its contents crashing to the floor. 

"Useless little shit! Look what you've done!" the high, malicious voice barks out from the bed, drawing the Soldier's eyes to that corner of the room. "Why would Buck come for you? He doesn't want to babysit you anymore. You're as broken as that lamp laying there. You're _imagining_ him. That's what you always do, pretend, disassociate. Mind in a book or a movie or your art so you didn't have to face reality. That you're a loser. A freak. A looneytune. Totally unwanted." 

Buck stares at the sheet wrapped body, glances at the pictures around the room. Realization dawns on him where he is, who this is meant to be.

"That is not your mother," he says calmly but firmly to Steve. "She would never speak to you like that."

"It's only the truth. I'm too damaged for anyone to love me. I hurt everyone." The blonde puts his hands over his face.

"You have spoken to me about Sarah Rogers enough that I know she loved you above all things, despite your flaws, because of your flaws. I know this because you are impossible to be close to and not love. Yes, we are damaged. We have made mistakes, but we do love each other. Neither of us ever meant to hurt the undeserving. Some part of you must know I am right, must agree, if you will only listen to it." 

Buck steps forward again, slowly, reaches his silver fingers out oh so carefully and grazes his knuckles down the side of Steve's face. When the blonde does not pull away, the Soldier moves closer, takes the slender hand in his metal one, and raises it. Buck rubs his cheek back and forth on Steve's palm then kisses it lightly. 

"It is you," Steve whispers, eyes going wide.

"It's not even human! Just wants you as its suck bitch until it tires of you! Some day it'll tear you apart with that arm!" not-Sarah continues. 

"I would rip it off first," Buck says, not breaking eye contact with Steve. 

"Buck would never hurt us," a warm, calm voice offers from the open bedroom door. "That makes you a liar. And so we _know_ you're not Ma, because she was the most honest person to ever live."

Buck and Steve both turn to see _another Steve_ standing in the doorway - he is older, hair shot through with fine silver streaks, wearing a pair of pink floral nurse scrubs and those ridiculous foam shoes. One of the pictures in the room features Sarah in a very similar outfit. Nurse-Steve stares at the shape in the bed, arms crossed. "Buck loves us. Ma loved us." 

"He was an embarrassment to his mother. He brought Sarah nothing but pain!" sheet voice continues.

"That was a tacit admission you're not Sarah Rogers. I have further evidence to cement that conclusion," nurse-Steve insists. 

He points at the television and it flares to life with what appears to be a home movie. Sarah is sitting on the ground next to a humble pile of boxes, some wrapped in newspaper. There is a pine tree behind her, clearly fake and old, but decorated in colorful lights. Buck recognizes this festivity as Christmas from his time at Claptrap. She is in scrubs, pale yellow with little blue flowers, a beautiful accent to her golden hair and cornflower eyes, both lighter than Steve's. 

"I know you said I didn't have to get you anything, but..." a voice says off camera; it sounds like Steve but much younger, voice not as deep, with the occasional crack.

His mother picks up a wide, flat gift, shakes it playfully. "What ever could it be?!" 

"_Maaa!_ It doesn't even rattle. Just open it already," the voice offers with affectionate exasperation. 

She unwraps it, revealing a picture frame and a thick envelope. Her hand covers her mouth as she looks at the image.

"And when did you do this? I never sat for you." Sarah looks at the camera, eyes shiny, faint smile on her lips. 

"I just...watched you when you had your coffee in the morning, focused on a different part of your face each week." 

"You clever little monkey. So sneaky." She smiles down at the frame. 

"I know it isn't that good -" 

"It's beautiful! Don't be silly. Way better than the real thing!" Sarah laughs, shows the intricate drawing of herself to the camera. "Thanks for not making your ma look too old and haggard." 

"It's a tough job, but someone has to do it." 

"Smartypants," she quips. "It's wonderful, Steve. Really. Just gorgeous. You're so talented, baby." 

"Sheesh, Ma. Just open the other thing," he urges. 

"Okay, okay. Can't take a compliment, just like your mother." She carefully lays it down. "And what's this?" she asks, hefting the envelope. "Let me guess. Homemade chore coupons?" 

"Laaaame." 

"Scratch offs." She winks.

"Ma. You only gamble at lawn fetes. Open it already!" 

"Fine, fine," Sarah laughs. Her eyes bug out when she opens it. She closes it, opens it again. "Steven Grant Rogers!" she nearly yells at him. "Where did you get this?!" 

"It's my babysitting money." 

"Steve, baby...this is," she rifles through it. "This is over a thousand dollars. I won't be mad. Just...tell me where you got it. Tell me the truth." 

"Mrs. Polanski pays me really good, Ma. And it's the money Mrs. Ianello always insists on giving me for carrying up her cat litter. And I sanded floors for Mr. Asfour. He showed me how to use the machine. He supervised and I was really careful, I swear! It was fun. We got three apartments done and repainted some cabinets. Don't worry. I wore a mask so I wouldn't cough from the fumes, not that I've had an attack in a long time. And it's my...my allowance too. I didn't keep any, except five bucks a week."

Sarah stares at him in shock, mouth gaping.

"I tried to cut it to two bucks, but candy bars are so expensive now... Plus I saved up to get some markers so I wouldn't have to ask you. I'm sorry it isn't more. When I turn sixteen I'll get a job and...Ma? Are you okay?" 

He stops as she puts her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake for the briefest moment. She clears her throat, tilts her head back, visibly gets her feelings under control. So like her son. 

"You are such a good boy. I could never..._No one_ could ask for a better son than you, do you know that? No one. But I can't keep this, baby. This is yours." 

She tries to hand it over, but fingers (already long and knobby) reach out and stop her.

"I know how hard you work, Ma. The CNA job, hours at the laundromat, sewing work on the side. It's only fair. You always say, everyone who can pull their weight should pull their weight and if they got strength left over, they should help someone carry their load when it's too heavy for them. And I may not be able to pull much yet, but...it's something at least, to lighten your load. Besides, if you give it back to me, I'll just hide it in all your stuff. You'll be pulling twenties out of your socks for months." 

"Okay," she says softly. "But on my next day off we're taking the train to that big art store and you're going to pick out at least a few things. Maybe you can paint your ma next time. Give me that big rack I always wanted." 

"Gross, Ma!" he retorts, obviously laughing at the end.

The television shuts off. The thing under the sheet grumbles more poison, but it sounds quieter, weaker. 

"You're not ma! Ma would chew out anyone who spoke to me like that! I thought Principal Parker was gonna cry when she was done with him." Steve slides his arms around Buck's waist, presses his cheek to his side and turns his gaze to where the bigger man stares at nurse-Steve. 

"Hello, sweetheart. I'm so happy to see you," the man in scrubs offers to Buck. "I tried to talk to Steve before, but he wasn't ready to listen. I needed you to open the door for me farther, like you so often do." 

"Who...? What...?" the Soldier tries - he had just heard all about rooms with dozens of fake-Steves and was becoming fast friends with one, but this was a new level of odd.

"I know that voice. You're...the level-headed one. I always imagine you being like Ma. We're... We're in my mind," Steve says, suddenly putting the pieces together. 

"He's right, Buck. I am Steve, just not the him that just _is_ most of the time, the whole person. I'm the part that offers encouragement, logic, patience. I'm the one who tells him he is more than his mistakes and the bad things that have happened to him. I remind him of his value and the good of other people. You make my job so much simpler, Buck. Steve loves you. Steve trusts you. Steve wants to be a better person for you. Usually Steve believes that you feel the same. And in return that makes it a little easier for Steve to love and trust himself, to hear _me_ louder." 

"Then...this isn't real," the blonde says slowly, looking up at the Soldier.

"I am real," Buck offers, "I am here. But you are correct. This is a creation of your memories. Of your fears. Our bodies are safe in the hotel." 

"Make no mistake - it's as real as Steve lets it be," the nurse offers. "No one controls their own mind completely, but the more Steve runs from what's in here, the more power Steve gives it, the longer Steve will be trapped here." 

A loud thud resounds from below immediately, as if in response, then the sound of heavy boots comes from the stairwell down the hall.

"It's Jack! He's a monster now. He always finds me," the blonde whispers, choking up. "I can never get away. He'll take me to Brock again!" Steve whimpers pressing tighter to Buck. 

The Soldier suppresses the shiver the word _again_ threatens to send through him. "Jack Rollins is dead. The thing that he became is dead as well. I promise you. He is not real," the Soldier assures, squeezing back.

Steve closes his eyes. "He's not real. He's not real. Go away, Jack. Go away. You're not real. Go away."

The sound of the main door being smashed in echoes through the apartment, making the mechanic's lids fly open. Loud steps, coupled with a deep growl, head towards the bedroom.


	96. If I die before I wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's mind proves a dangerous place for all present.

Nurse-Steve almost daintily steps out of the way as the Jack-thing charges into Sarah's bedroom and heads straight for Steve. Buck flies at it, swings, but the thing is suddenly not there. It is behind him, approaching the blonde as he grabs a piece of shattered lamp off the floor and holds the shard up like a knife. 

Buck tries to grab the creature from behind but his arms only encircle empty air. The thing is behind him now, again advancing slowly. 

"What do I do?" the Soldier addresses nurse-Steve. "How do I stop it?"

"_You_ can't," scrubs replies cryptically.

"Steve, run!" Buck orders, moving towards the big man again, prepared to swing. 

"You said running won't help," Steve addresses his other self. "So what do I do? I tried everything to fight him." 

Every time Buck throws a punch, the Jack-thing disappears and reappears somewhere else. 

"You could never hurt Jack," nurse-Steve offers. 

"I did though!" the blonde whimpers. "It's my fault he's dead. I deserve this." The mechanic drops the shard. He sets his hand on Buck's arm. "You should go. Before I get you killed too." 

"I will not leave you!" the Soldier insists, putting himself between the blonde and the Jack-thing again.

"Buck! Go! I'm not worth your life," the mechanic insists. "I'm ordering you to leave!"

He backs the blonde up further as the Jack-thing advances, drooling black. The Soldier can only assume it has not bit him because Steve is unaware that it would do that to another inhuman. 

"No!" Buck says sternly. "I do not take orders anymore! You must know by now I would die to protect you.That is my choice! " 

"Just like it was Jack's choice," nurse-Steve offers. 

The mechanic looks from his other self to Jack and back several times, then abruptly slips under Buck's arm and runs at the creature. The Soldier expects him to fly at it, attack it with righteous fury as he has seen the smaller man do on runs to bigger enemies. Instead his narrow arms wrap around the thing's waist and he presses his face to its chest.

"I can't get away from you, Jack, because I'm dragging you right along with me, like there's a tether between us I can't let go of." Steve leans back, looks up into the black eyes, puts a hand to the gray-green face. "This isn't how you'd want me to remember you. Not this and not on the ground full of holes." 

To Buck's shock the thing stands stark still throughout, then slowly shifts - skin color changing, teeth shortening and going blunt, eyes turning human with hazel irises. 

"Stevie," the big man with the scarred face says, grazing the blonde's cheek with his knuckles. "Always so clever." Jack Rollins smiles.

"Tell him. Tell him what you really want to," nurse-Steve says low and warm.

The blonde sobs, nods, looks back at Jack.

"You weren't perfect, but you kept me alive and I'm grateful. Grateful that you were good to me when you didn't have to be. That you protected me, fought for me. I...love you. I miss you." 

"Parts of me are with you," the big man offers, looking to Buck. "The best parts. But you need to let the rest of me move on." 

Steve presses his lips together in a tight line, tears streaming down his face as he nods. The scarred man leans low and kisses his neck softly.

"Goodbye, Jack," the blonde whispers. 

"Goodbye, Stevie," the big man responds as his form turns slowly to smoke.

He floats away, becoming more diffuse as he rises until his shape is no longer distinguishable. Buck and Steve look up to watch him go and see there is nothing between them and the sky. The stars are just visible in the early evening. When Jack is gone and their eyes return to their surroundings, they are in a clearing with several large trucks and a bonfire, woods on three sides with a dirt road through them headed south. It stretches north as well, through an overgrown field running down a hillside. 

"This is where we detonated the bomb," Steve says quietly, voice tinged with fear. "This is where _he_ always is." 

On cue, the monster steps from behind Brock's truck. 

"Crossbones...Brock...is dead. In the world. The Soldiers and I killed him and burned him," Buck offers, taking the mechanic's hand. "He cannot hurt you anymore." 

The thing runs forward, strikes the Soldier hard, throws him into one of the log benches.

"I burned him too! It didn't stop him. He only came back stronger," the mechanic insists. 

"Sweetie-pie!" the thing hisses, rubbing itself through its jeans. "This'll be fun! I can take you in front of him. Show him what you're good for. Getting bent over." The creature is suddenly lording over Buck - it strikes him hard in the face. "He went with me willingly, you know," it says as its boot sinks into the Soldier's ribs. 

"Stop!" Steve yells, trying to grab the Brock-thing's arm, only to be tossed off. 

"To my camp, into my truck alone. He even flirted with me." 

It swings on Buck again. The Soldier catches the thing's fist with his metal hand, but he cannot hold it for long - his arm shakes with effort and his fingers start to cave in. The Brock-thing throws the Soldier back. 

"He even nutted when I stroked him off. He asked for it. It's his own fault." 

"Get away from him!" the mechanic screams, striking the creature with a thick chunk of wood - it just splinters and the Brock-thing remains unfazed. 

It grabs Steve this time, wrapping an arm around him to pin his own to his sides. 

"The bodies of others do not exist for you to take pleasure from without their consent, regardless of their previous actions," the Soldier seethes as he slowly gets to his feet. "What you have done is unforgivable, but it is what _you_ have done. Steve is not to blame. He could not have known what you were. Liar. Monster." 

"That's cute. We'll see how you feel after I fuck you senseless in front of your little boyfriend here."

The mechanic thrashes harder in the thing's hold. "**Don't you fucking touch him!**" he screeches, all trace of fear gone, replaced with pure rage.

"We can defeat it, together," Buck insists. "This is your mind. You do not have to allow it to stay here." 

"I'll _always_ be in here," the Brock-thing offers, gaze shifting to the blonde as he gives the struggling Steve a shake. "Too much has happened between us and you know it Sweetie-Pie." 

The blonde goes still in his grasp.

"He's right. I could never really be free of him. Even if we won the fight, we couldn't destroy him." 

"Awww, you know I don't like it when the struggle goes out of you. How did you keep going, keep fighting? All those months." The Brock-thing grins.

Steve gets a look like he's had an epiphany and his mouth twists into a truly terrifying smile. "I used to talk to myself."

A petite figure runs from the darkness - it's another Steve, but skinnier and a bit younger than the mechanic as Buck knows him. His face is covered in bruises from fighting, his clothes ripped and dirty, and he's carrying a trash can lid. An expression that is positively feral is spread over his face. 

"**Greetings, fuckwad!**" the rabid-looking blonde screams, throwing the lid like a frisbee into the side of the Brock-thing's face. 

The creature drops the mechanic as the metal disc ricochets and the younger Steve catches it by the handle, then moves it out in front of himself like a shield. He runs at the creature and smashes the whole inside of the lid into its face, knocking it to the ground. 

"Fuck you!" feral-Steve yells. He just repeats "fuck you!" again and again, each utterance of the words punctuated with another hard bash of the lid, now coated in black blood and chunks of grayish meat. When the Brock-thing's skull is crushed, its face nearly missing, feral-Steve lords over it. "Is baby gonna cry?" he asks mockingly.

The thing is slowly healing, but it's clearly in a lot of pain, dazed. 

"Just because we can't destroy it, doesn't mean we can't lock it up," the mechanic tells Buck, nodding towards the trucks. 

The Soldier and Steve run at the Brock-thing, grab its arms and drag it across the scrub grass. Every time it starts to resist, feral-Steve hits it in the face again with the lid, complete with a string of colorful expletives. Buck and the mechanic hoist the creature up, the smaller Steve fiddling with its boots. They throw the thing into the back of Brock's truck. 

"This is all the room you get from now on," Steve tells it. 

It staggers to its feet fast, moves to escape, long sharp teeth bared in a snarl. It trips over it's tied together laces and falls on its face a foot from the back of the truck. Steve swings the door shut and latches it. He leans against the step up on the back of the truck, panting. Buck starts to move to join him when the feral-Steve gets his attention.

"Heeeeyy sexy," it offers, throwing down the lid. It eyes him up and down and whistles. "Man, you're a hot piece." 

The Soldier stares with wide eyes as the younger Steve jumps up on him, arms going around the bigger man's neck and legs around his waist. The feral blonde hits Buck with a searing liplock. "You know, when I wasn't convinced you were against us, I was totally rooting to get you laid."

Buck lowers feral-Steve back to his feet and he whines. 

"Buck, meet bullhead," the mechanic offers, slowly standing. "This is the stubborn, angry, ruthless part that never gives in."

"He forgot sarcastic, brave and _horny._" 

"And jealous," nurse-Steve offers, stepping from behind Jack's truck.

"Iiiccccchhhhh!" Bullhead rolls his eyes. "It's you! Destroyer of fun. The one that tells Steve to just cuddle when I wanna fuck." 

"And to use his words when you want to smash." The man in scrubs smiles. 

"Worked out good this time," feral-Steve grumbles. "Better than your touchy feely crap would."

"I helped best two foes, thank you very much. Without lifting a finger," the voice of reason retorts. 

The mechanic sighs, lays a hand on the Soldier's arm to pull him away from the squabbling entities. "They do that a lot. Best we go and leave them to it. How did you get in here anyway?" 

"The simplest explanation is that I bit you," Buck offers. "Apologies. You had requested it before and I did not know what else to do." 

"It's okay, sweetheart," the blonde responds.

"Ick, gross. Are we married to that knickname?" Bullhead interrupts.

"It's adorable," nurse-Steve counters. "Far superior to _hot piece_." 

"If that's how you got in, maybe that's how we can get out," Steve smiles, pulls his collar to the side. 

Buck takes one last look at the bickering other-Steves, then cups his boyfriend's face with his metal hand. "You must give yourself over to it. You must trust me." 

"Always," the mechanic responds, bending his head to offer his neck. 

The Soldier buries his teeth in Steve as he slides an arm around him, pulls him off the ground and tight against him. Almost immediately there is the feel of their synced pulses washing over them. Everything is black nothingness but their warmth pressed close, the throb rolling through their bodies, through their minds. 

Moments later they come back to themselves enough to feel their bare flesh pressed together, the hot bathwater, to smell the scent of each other commingled with soap in the air and see each other's bodies. Another shared heartbeat washes over them and Buck whimpers as Steve moans outright. The Soldier can feel he has not drank very much, probably was not even actively sucking during the experience. There is a brief glimmer of indecision about whether he should continue, but the little mechanic must sense it because he just barely manages to speak.

"Don't stop." 

So Buck does not. He wills his pulse to go harder - it makes Steve get _so loud_. On the edges of his mind he can feel the blonde's pleasure, knows that in turn Steve can feel his - it travels between them in an endless feedback loop of sensations on top of their own experiences. The little mechanic tastes so good, so rich and sweet despite his body needing care, that _otherness_ gone from him. Buck groans again and again, completely drugged, the blonde's overwhelmed bellowing filling his ears. 

Even his best experience with Luis was _less_ than this. There are no words to describe the ecstasy they feel, the intensity of the bond between them, physically, emotionally. The bliss seems to stretch on forever. Somehow Buck still senses when it is time to stop. It is almost easier somehow - not only does his internal alarm alert him, but he can _feel_ how Steve's body is doing. He heals the wound, eases the blonde slowly back onto his lap.

With immense effort, Steve leans his head back enough to look up at Buck.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Hello, little mechanic." 

They hear the bathroom door fly open and Sitwell hurries around the half-wall blocking their view. "Is everything okay? I thought I heard...Steve!" He stops in his tracks, remaining eye wide. "You're... You're awake!" 

Buck is up out of the water like a shot, eyes glowing electric blue as he snarls at Jasper and advances.


	97. Who cut the cheese?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang deal with the aftermath of Crossbones in different ways.

It wasn't the first time Jasper had been choked, but it is the first time by a naked vampire supersoldier with a virtually indestructible metal hand as they incoherently snarl things at him. He can't say he's actively pictured Steve naked - that's a lot farther down the line of acknowledging his wants and feelings than he'd gotten before he'd consciously put the brakes on his crush - but if he had, he's sure it wouldn't be under these circumstances. The blonde stumbles over, bleary-eyed, rubs his pruney hands over his face a few times. 

"Buck. Wha're you...?" the mechanic slurs, leaning against the Soldier. His big, sea-blue eyes drift up to Sitwell's now-maroon face. "Oh, hi Jasper. Wha'happen to yer..." 

Steve's long fingers flit up towards the bald man's bandaged eye socket, then slowly over to the silver wrist near his chin. An odd look crosses the blonde's face as his hand follows Buck's metal one to Sitwell's dented skin. It takes a few painfully long seconds for Steve to realize what he's feeling, during which Jasper wonders in a vague, almost comical way if he'll shit himself in front of his former(?) crush when he dies. 

"Tha'snah nice, Buck. Pu'Jasper down'n come back to the tub," Steve murmurs, rubbing his hand up over the silver arm as he presses his face to the bigger man's ribs. 

The Soldier drops the bald man and he wheezes for breath. It was a good thing some part of Buck recognized him as a low level threat (or still wanted to torture him a bit), because if killing Jasper were his primary focus the brunette would have just crushed his windpipe or snapped his neck easily in seconds rather than strangling him for a prolonged period. Sitwell keeps his eye up high as a very nude Steve snuggles into the equally exposed big gray man's side without a hint of embarrassment. The Soldier lifts the blonde enough he can walk back a few paces, still growling softly. 

"Hey, I heard someth..." Clint trails off as he walks farther into the bathroom and sees a naked Buck - the Soldier growls louder and clutches a limp Steve tighter to his side, turning his body to partially hide him. 

"Hey, hey easy big fella. It's just me," Clint offers, holding his hands up placatingly. 

"S'ok, sweetheart," the mechanic responds dopily. "S'just big brother."

The archer's face breaks out into a huge smile. "Stevie, you're back!" 

Clint takes a step forward, but that gets the Soldier to snap his teeth at him and he quickly shifts back. Buck retreats farther too, gets louder, eyes glowing bright, when Nat and Win join the party. Their eyes go wide at the bizarre scene. Steve whispers to Buck soothingly throughout, calming him, until Luis comes in and he goes quiet, starts glaring. Luis considers the naked couple, then the other shocked faces in the room, and finally Jasper's red one. The others follow his eyes, noticing Sitwell for the first time.

"What the fuck is going on here, Jasper? Are you perving on baby brother again?" Clint queries, balling up his fist.

Jasper rasps out something that isn't quite words, shakes his head vigorously and waves his hand.

"Woah! Woah! Easy. I think they're just feed-drunk. Jasper probably popped in to check on them and Buck choked the shit out of him," the green-eyed man offers and Sitwell nods hard in agreement. Luis looks at the Soldier, gentles his voice. "Winter, buddy, did you bite Steve? Is that what woke him up?" 

"Fed him. Bit him. Found him," the Soldier says slow and soft, setting Steve gently back on his feet but keeping an arm around him, the glow of his irises dulling a bit.

"_Found_ him?" Nat asks. 

"Apartment. Woods. Truck," Buck whispers, the blonde pressing his face into his side, both arms around his waist.

"Uhh, okay. Why don't you bring Steve out in the living room where we can get him warmed up and give him some food?" Luis suggests, taking a cautious step towards the bigger man. 

The mechanic's grip around Buck turns to iron when the green-eyed man approaches and reaches for the Soldier's arm.

"Mine!!" the mechanic yells, stepping back and (hilariously) attempting to pull the Soldier with him to no avail. "Mineminemine!"

"Yours," Buck responds, dopey, bending to rub his face in the blonde hair. "Yours."

"Mine," Steve mumbles softly, calming as Luis takes a few steps back, wide-eyed. "My Buck. Mine."

"Okay, everybody out," Luis demands, making a shooing gesture. After they comply, he motions for Buck to follow, keeping his distance as the mechanic eyes him. "Come on, buddy. Steve is gonna get cold and he needs to eat." 

"Cold. Eat," the Soldier repeats, hoisting Steve up on his hip like a toddler. 

After a ton of gentle urging, the pair - still pressed to each other - settle on the sofa and let Win wrap them in a big blanket, the two men quietly saying her name a few times as she smiles back at them. They zone in and out of what's happening around them, snuggling close and locking gazes. Only about every fifth statement is acknowledged as Win, Nat and Clint try to converse with them. 

Luis getting too close riles Steve up every time, a litany of _mine, mine, mine_ coming out of him, and Jasper's smart enough to keep far back. The green-eyed man busies himself talking Red through healing Sitwell's throat with as few injections as possible, since he'd already had so much Soldier blood a few days ago for his other injuries. They'd left the eye socket - Buck was unsure what would happen, since Crossbones had ripped out the optic nerve and all, and wanted to "try something later," though he did not elaborate on what. 

Win tries to get Steve to eat but he refuses everything offered, finally requesting in a sleepy, almost child-like voice, "I wan' your mac'n'cheese, Clint." 

"With the garlic and onions?" the archer queries. 

The blonde grunts in the affirmative and nods from his position against Buck's chest. Clint starts scrounging together ingredients to make it, happy there was produce taken from the settlement, but bemoaning his lack of adequate cheese since there's only parmesan ("not melty," he pouts) and a small round of Gouda left. Paul comes over to the huge granite-topped island, plops down the cheddar wheel, cuts off a third with a big kitchen knife and leaves the rest, giving Clint the best _there, now shut the fuck up_ look he can muster. 

Steve eats ravenously and then promptly falls asleep against the Soldier's shoulder. Buck whines and nuzzles him awake, afraid he's _gone_ again.

"M'good, sweethear'. Promise. Jus' so sleepy. Bed?" the blonde slurs, pointing up to indicate the domed room above where their cozy nest remains from before. 

"Mm," the brunette hums in the affirmative, standing and carrying Steve to the stairs, letting the blanket fall half off them as he climbs without giving it a moment's notice. 

Nat calls after them - "You're welcome for saving your life I guess, Steve." When there's no response she yells, "Nice ass, Buck!" but that doesn't generate an answer either; she shrugs. 

Jasper returns to his previous room, grumbles when he finds two freed asleep in the bed, then heads to the next spare bedroom. The others catch a glance of a pile of writhing bodies and the sounds of moans drift out. Sitwell closes the door almost as quickly as he opened it, red faced for a very different reason than earlier. Nat murmurs her approval while Jasper goes in the last room, finds it empty and shuts the door. 

Sitwell lets out a long sigh, lightly fingering his neck, looking for any sign of discomfort - there's none, but he can't say the same for the eye (or rather where it should be). He's not a vain man, but he has a sudden urge to see his face without the bandage, having pointedly avoided it before and after showering and letting one of the others change his dressing. Crossing to the bathroom, he opens the door and yelps in surprise when he finds Paul - naked from the waist down - bent over the sink. He's bracing himself with one hand while the other is bent back behind him, three fingers inside himself. 

Jasper slams the door, stammers out words he's not even sure are an apology. The petite man opens it abruptly, pajama top half unbuttoned and just covering his prick and balls. He leans calmly against the frame and crosses his arms, surveying the slightly older man's intense blush. The open wounds on him were healed now, but the scars couldn't be, not without carving them out and putting the Soldier's blood on the fresh openings. His blue eyes sparkle mischievously under his black brows and he quirks one side of his lips up as Jasper stammers out half an explanation that amounts to something like _other rooms... sleepers... orgy... thought this empty..._

"Look, it's fine," the smaller man offers. When Jasper just continues to stare like a deer in headlights, he sighs. "I know what you're thinking. Super weird after everything that's happened to me. But what can I say, Welly? I'm a big old bottom and you have no idea how long it's been since I've had anything in there I actually wanted. Besides these people have an ungodly amount of lube," he says without embarrassment, raising his hand to wiggle his shiny fingers at the other man. 

Pushing up his glasses, Sitwell opens his mouth, closes it. He's painfully aware he's hard and feels instantly ashamed, like the total creep everyone thinks he is. But, he reasons, he has zero experience walking in on attractive guys - yes, he finds Paul attractive and he's a bit proud he doesn't try to lie to himself about it - pleasuring themselves. And he just witnessed a....five-way?... a few minutes ago, so he thinks he can give his dick a pass this time. I mean, he just saw Steve naked for a prolonged period and not a twitch. Dear God, he needs out of here fast before he can be caught, humiliated, but he'll absolutely never hear the end of it from the others if they see him in this state.

While he's busy with these mental gymnastics, Paul's pretty, intense eyes slide over Jasper's reddened face and down his body. He grins.

"You got a flashlight in your pocket or are you happy to see me?" the petite man jests, but his voice is soft, husky. He moves forward. "I can guess, since those pants don't _have_ pockets."

Sitwell quickly takes a retreating step and they both repeat until the backs of Jasper's knees are against the side of the mattress. Paul, half pressed against him, brings a delicate-boned hand up and gently touches the gauze just below his eye socket, then slides his fingertips down the angle of his cheekbone to graze his lips. The smaller man leans up and kisses Jasper softly once, twice - he's too stunned to do anything but stare and swallow hard. 

Other than a girlfriend in college, and a brief affair with a colleague nearly ten years ago (that ended as fast as it began once he stated emphatically he wouldn't get them unfairly promoted), no one has ever openly wanted him before - aside from a very, very select few people who have caught his eye, he's never wanted anyone but them either. He knows he's not asexual, but he isn't exactly overtly sexual - it's probably just one more spectrum he's on somewhere - and his experience is nil in the arena of casual sex.

Paul can't really... Maybe this is a joke; that would make sense. It doesn't feel like one though as the petite man kisses him harder, then trails his lips over Jasper's jaw and down his neck, delicate hand pressing over the bulge in his pajama pants. He whimpers, the sound somewhere between enjoyment and terror, and Paul shushes him gently, mumbling something reassuring before easing Jasper's pants down.

A lube-slick hand wraps light around him and he can only gasp as it gently strokes, Paul's warm mouth working at his throat. Despite the panic, he gets incredibly hard - Paul hums softly in approval, moves his other hand to grip the back of Jasper's neck, to pull him down into another kiss which he clumsily returns. They stay like that awhile, the pressure of Paul's hand on him feather-light, even as the lips against his grow more insistent. The smaller man pulls back, pushes Jasper carefully down onto the bed and then moves to straddle him. The bespectacled man tries to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Then Paul is taking him in hand again, raising up over him, _sinking down on him._

A helpless sound of surprise commingled with pleasure comes out of Jasper - Paul is _so tight_ despite his earlier ministrations, hot there like a furnace, wet with lubricant. He can't exactly explain how it's different from being inside a woman (something he'd also enjoyed), but it is. The smaller man settles slowly, not taking all of him, raises carefully back up, eases down farther than last time. He repeats this gingerly until Jasper is buried in him to the balls.

"Nnnnnn," Paul whimpers, pausing there, closing his eyes. There's a second of fear at his noise and pinched brow that he's hurt, but he doesn't appear that way the longer Jasper observes him - he looks like he's _savoring it_ and circles his hips slowly a few times. "Nnnnn," he lets out again, taking Jasper's hands and sliding them to his haunches. "It's okay if you don't last long. I'm already close. Just relax. Enjoy yourself," he says low and gravelly, running his hands up and down the other man's tense arms before sliding them to rest on his chest. "Nothing to be scared of here," he whispers - it sounds as much like a reassurance to himself as to Jasper.

Paul sets a leisurely pace, rocking up and down on him, his blue eyes occasionally fluttering open to lock on Jasper's remaining one. A little smile dances over his face whenever his movement pulls a noise of pleasure from the man beneath him and he hums his approval each time. His own sounds stay low and breathy, face flushed with enjoyment and forehead sweaty with effort. The speed of his hips starts to steadily increase and he rolls them a bit back on each downward motion, making the length inside him press against his sensitive spot. He starts groaning softly, slides Jasper's hand from his hip, rubs it with with his lubed one and pulls it to the hardness between his legs.

Sitwell is frozen with shock for a long moment, but then cautiously starts to stroke Paul as he moves on him a bit faster. As if what was happening already wasn't evidence enough, he's holding the proof of the other man's arousal in his hand - it pushes him almost to the edge immediately. The smaller man pants hard for a bit, suddenly goes completely silent, the soft, repetitive squeak of the mattress the only sound in the room besides Jasper's quiet, ragged breathing. Suddenly Paul let's out a long high moan and cums all over Jasper's hand and the inside of his nightshirt. His hole goes even tighter around the other man, milking the orgasm out of him as Paul ruts, uncoordinated, on top of him through his own.

Paul cleans them up with his ruined top after, gets his own pants from the bathroom, then grabs one of the heavy comforters from the bed. He kisses Jasper on the cheek, then curls up on the floor in the blanket to sleep. The other man tries not to be hurt that he's alone in the bed, but he lays awake a long time, feeling cold in a way that has nothing to do with his accommodations.


	98. Peanut butter jelly time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat tries to be a nicer wife and girlfriend, but it's so hard (_that's what she said_).

"Maybe we should go check on them," Win offers, eyeing the staircase. 

"I know you guys want to see Steve more, but they're both going to be..._nesty_ for a while. Better to just give them time. They barely even know we exist right now. Plus, Winter would never forgive himself if he seriously hurt one of you." 

"He _was_ pretty jelly of Jasper," Clint smirks. "Speaking of, wasn't Paul in there?" He points to the bedroom Sitwell went in moments before. 

"Who the fuck says _jelly_ anymore? I know you're _so old_ but come on!" Luis grins as the archer scowls. "Besides, it's not _ jealousy_. It's... protectiveness." 

"Steve was for sure _jelly_," the archer says. "You get all possessive of Bucky like that after he bites your neck?" Clint jests as he gently tweaks Luis in the ribs, then moves to fake chomp on his throat - the green-eyed man smirks and blushes a bit. 

"No, that was...weird. Especially since Steve only yelled at me. But the after effect _is_ a lot stronger when he bites you there, especially if he's bit you before. Who knows what drinking his blood before he bites you does to it." 

Win grabs the mohawked man. "Mine!" she growls playfully, pulling him away from Clint, kissing him hard. 

"I'll fight you for him," the archer jests to the welder, putting his arms around Luis and picking him up out of her grasp, claiming his mouth, easing his tongue in. 

"Mine!" the welder says in a fake deep voice, mimicking Steve and attack tickling Clint until he drops her (their?) boyfriend. "Mine! Mine!" 

"Now, now," Nat calls, knocking back the last of her wine with a quick tilt of her head and setting the glass down on the bar. "There's enough of Luis to go around." 

She cocks a somehow still flawlessly shaped brow at the green-eyed man and he suddenly feels like a rabbit in the sites of a wolf. The assassin walks over, considers him for a moment, then kisses him slowly. 

"OoooOoooo!" Win offers mockingly, like a kid on the playground as Clint makes a surprised - but not wholly displeased - face.

"W-what was that for?" Luis stammers. 

"Does it need to be _for_ something? I mean, they both did it." Nat motions to Clint and Win.

"But, you...like..._hate me_," the younger man blurts out.

Nat rolls her eyes. "You're not...totally awful. I guess you've been...useful." 

"Wow. Shit apology," the archer chastises playfully. "Here, let me help you, baby." He comes up beside her, puts a thumb to her lower lip and moves her mouth like a ventriloquist's dummy, talking out one side of his mouth in a high pitched voice. "_Thank you for stopping Hill from stealing the Soldiers and killing Clint, Luis. And for bringing Clint back from the dead and saving _ -"

"Don't say _saving my life_!" The redhead jabs a pointy nail into Clint's sternum. "Look," she sighs, turning to face Luis again. "I was..." She huffs, rolls her eyes again - "wrong about you, I guess."

"And?" the archer queries. 

"Everyone else in this..._quadrouple_ gets along with each other except us. And I guess that could maybe, sort of, a little bit be..." 

"Your fault?" Win asks, crossing her arms - she grins when the assassin shoots her a withering look. 

"And?" Clint says again. 

"You do" - Nat makes a face like she's tasted something bad - "care about Clint, for _whatever_ reason." 

"_Wow!_" the archer exclaims with a combination of amusement and offense. 

_ "And?" Win asks. _

"And it took some balls to do the things you did this past week." 

"Now she wants to see them," Win too-loud whispers. 

"Very funny," Luis says, narrowing his eyes at the welder. 

"Actually... you are...sort of hot," Nat offers begrudgingly. "And more importantly, Win says you give good head." 

"I guess you're sort of hot, too," Luis says in sarcastic jest, mimicking her eye roll. "So, what does this mean exactly?" 

"God! Enough talking! Aren't men supposed to like avoiding conversations by making up with sex?" Nat complains. 

She kisses him again, deeper this time, and after a second he returns it. 

"Now _I'm_ jelly," Clint says in a mock pout, drawing both of their eyes. 

Nat leans up to kiss him slow, Luis doing the same after. "Better," he says, then motions between the two of them, and they lock lips again. 

The welder walks over to Clint, eyes the other two as they kiss more passionately, and grabs the archer's t-shirt to drag him down. "Fair is fair," she offers before pressing her mouth to his. 

Still holding his shirt, Win hauls him into the master bedroom. Clint's eyes nearly bug out of his head as she jumps on him, arms around his neck and legs around his waist, crushing her mouth back to his. She pulls up the long flannel she's wearing and directs his hand between her legs. 

"I keep hearing how good the _d_ is," Win offers. 

"I knew you weren't shy, but damn girl. Are you sure this is okay? I mean we don't have to. Unless you want to. I mean, I never really thought about it. Okay, maybe once or twice..." 

"You gonna talk or make me cum?" Win responds, smiling and gripping him through his sweats. "I have had a shit few days and you are not my only option." She grins, eyes the others as Nat leads Luis in by the hand and closes the door. 

"I can multi-task," Clint responds indignantly. 

"She likes a thumb on her clit," the other two say in unison and he finds her sweet spot immediately. 

Nat pushes Luis back on the bed and starts climbing up him on her knees until she's straddling his waist. "So, green eyes, you hungry?" 

He smiles sheepishly, but nods. She drops the robe, revealing nothing beneath, and moves to straddle his face, putting his hands on her hips. 

She groans softly as Luis starts to explore her with his tongue, looking over at her lovers, now pressed to a wall. 

Clint has two thick fingers inside Win and she's rocking on his hand as he moves them up and down, slightly curled, heel of his hand slapping against her clit. He sucks at her neck as she says something he doesn't need to speak Cantonese to get the gist of, and then flutters around his fingers. Not for the first time, he's a bit surprised - but not disappointed - that she's a screamer. For a bit he just kisses her shoulders while she trembles. 

"Fuck, I needed that," the welder finally breathes out. 

Clint and Win turn to watch Nat riding Luis' face as the redhead starts offering words of approval. It's rare to see her out of sorts, but her cheeks are flushed and her hips slowly rocking. The assassin slides the green-eyed man's hands to her ass and he squeezes rhythmically. She tangles one hand in his curls, arches back and strokes his cock through the thin material of his lounge pants. The groan he lets out obviously vibrates through her and she looks quite pleased - for Natasha anyway. A sound comes out of her both Clint and Win are very familiar with as her head goes back and eyes close. 

"Record time!" the archer comments. 

"She will not want your inferior skills now that she has had better," Win offers, smirking at him. 

"And you were complaining about _me_ talking," he half-laughs. 

"Stop me then," she responds, gripping him hard through his pajama pants, then untying them to let them drop on the floor. Win digs her feet into Clint's ass, urging him forward. 

"You sure? It's okay if you don't want -" 

She licks her hand, then rubs it over his length, directs him against her, pulls him in with her heels. 

"Fuuuuck," he groans, slowly sinking into her intense heat. 

"That is the idea," she says breathily before leaning up to nip at his Adam's apple. 

He slides in and out of her tight, wet hole carefully, rolling his hips slow, one arm around her tiny waist and the other under her slim ass, her shoulders against the wall. 

"That good?" Clint asks - it isn't a bid for praise, but a genuine question, his eyes filled with concern. 

"I am not a teacup, I won't break," Win responds, smiling. "Fuck me like you mean it." When he doesn't pick up the pace enough to satisfy her (literally), she gets a fistful of the longer, spiky brown hair on the top of his head and gives it a firm pull. "Harder." 

"Nnnn," he groans. 

"You do like a little abuse." She slaps him across the face, once, twice. "**Harder.**" 

The archer steps away from the wall, gets her in a better position to rock her up and down on his dick as he thrusts up into her forcefully. 

"Harder!" 

Clint let's out a grunt that's equal parts pain and pleasure as she slaps him again. He's not really a _pound a woman with his cock like a pornstar_ kind of guy, and that isn't Nat's thing at all, but he has to trust Win to know what she wants. The archer walks to the waist-high dresser on the far wall, slams her (still somewhat carefully) down onto it, pushing her legs further up on either side of his waist and fucks her as hard as he dares. Her petite body slides up and down the dresser and she moans high and loud, fist grabbing the down at his nape tight and not letting go. 

"Damn," Nat says to Luis, both now sitting on their knees next to each other on the bed. "She's gonna break you, boy." 

"Don't I know it," Luis responds softly. 

"Better get on this before that happens." The redhead looks down at his tented pants, grips the waistband and slides them to his knees. She positions her bent legs on either side of his outer thighs, back to his chest, raises up, grips his cock, slides him into her soaking wet pussy. 

"Uhhhh," is all Luis manages, shocked. 

She brings one of his hands to her breast and the other between her legs in the front, starts to ride him with her own hands gripping the back of his neck. Luis gets his bearings, uses every muscle group to rock up to meet her movements, rubbing her clit and nipple in slow circles, kissing open-mouthed up her spine. Nat drops down hard, burying him in her to the hilt and he groans against her neck, fingers going to either side of his cock sliding in and out of her. He moves them back slick to rub her clit with firm, short strokes. 

Clint lets out a stuttering groan and Win grips his chin hard. "You can empty those big balls in me, but not yet." 

He whimpers, mouth hanging open. "That's not the thing to tell someone...ahhhh...to make them not cum. Goddamn, girl. Mouth like a sailor on yooouuuuu!" Clint yelps as she gives his hair another hard tug. Pushing her legs up higher, fucking her deeper, he makes sure their bodies press tight together, putting pressure in all the right places, his sac slapping against her more noticeably. He can feel her body clamping around him, knows she's close again. 

"You absolutely _cannot_ cum in me. Or on me. Or near me," Nat instructs breathily. 

"Uhhh-h-hhh-hh...o-o-kay," Luis manages. 

"If you're good, you'll get a reward," she muses, moving on him faster. "Just like that. Just like that," she says in a low, sultry voice as they move together. 

The welder and the redhead lock eyes, smile at each other as they pant. 

Win's eyebrows pull in and she screeches so loud Clint isn't sure if it's her voice or the head-spinning force of his own orgasm as he slams into her that makes him go deaf. 

Nat's motions speed up, her voice steadily getting higher. "Good boy, good boy, gooooouhhhhhhh! Uhhhhhhh!" 

The green-eyed man has never fought so hard not to finish in his whole life as he watches her perfect ass move up and down with abandon and feels her pulsing around him. She makes a few more brief movements, just to tease him, before climbing off. Nat turns, kisses him slow. 

"Well done," she says in rare genuine praise. "Now you get your surprise." 

The redhead looks over to Clint, cleaning himself off with his t-shirt after having done the same for Win. She hooks a finger twice and he approaches, tossing the shirt in a corner. The assassin stands, whispers something in his ear. 

"Yeah?" he asks, sounding wary and excited. 

"You said you wanted to and he's earned it. Besides, he tastes like me now." 

Nat looks smug as she heads over to sit on the dresser next to Win, the women putting an arm around each other's waists and kissing softly before turning to watch the men. Clint leans down, carefully slides Luis' pants the rest of the way off, then grips his hips and pulls him to sit on the edge of the bed. The archer drops to his knees between Luis' own on the comforter piled there. 

"I've never sucked off a guy, obviously. But... I've done it a lot when Nat was wearing the toy." He blushes a little. "It was something she thought was hot and honestly I...really like doing it." He rubs his hands gently up and down Luis legs. "Can I?" he asks softly. 

Speechless, the green-eyed man slowly nods. 

"Just look at me," Clint directs, voice low and husky, moving Luis' hands to rest on his shoulders. "I wanna see those pretty eyes." 

The archer shifts back, trails kisses up his leg before softly biting the meat of his inner thigh, then sucking lightly at his sac, pulling a little groan from the smaller man. Clint grips Luis' length, gives it a few slow strokes as he leans back, stares up at the expression of mixed arousal, fear, anticipation and surprise on his face. Never breaking eye contact, the archer bends down, licks a wide swath up the underside of Luis' hard cock, flicking his tongue experimentally on the underside of the head to see if the other man is as sensitive there as he is - the whimper that comes out of him says it all. He teases the slit with his tongue, tasting Nat especially there. 

Warm, soft, slick lips wrap around Luis and slide torturously slow down his length then back up several times before Clint's tongue also joins in. The archer, other than the occasional blink, never stops looking up at him. The smaller man's hands tighten on the muscular shoulders as the older man speeds up his pace, dragging his tongue hard along the underside of the head on each upwards motion. Clint's big hands slide under and around Luis' ass, urge him to gently fuck up into Clint's mouth. That gets the younger man panting and groaning brokenly, grip slipping to the back of the archer's thick neck for leverage. 

"Ahhhhhh!" Luis lets out a bit louder, brows pulling in, hips moving a bit less smoothly. 

Watching Clint's face intently still, he sees his cock disappearing into the other man's mouth again and again, those pouty little dark pink lips stretched around it. That's incredible, of course, but it's the archer's eyes that really get him. They're incongruously clear, soft, round and beautiful - with thick lashes and heavy, big lids - for a face with such unusual, prominent features and the beginning of age lines. Luis has never been able to decide exactly what color they are and he sees now it's because they're many colors - deep blue shot through with emerald, making them look almost teal in this light, and little runners of hazel. The look in them is indescribable, like Clint wants to swallow Luis in a wholly other way. 

"I'm gon... I'm gonna-gonna cum," he whimpers. 

Luis moves his hands to the front of Clint's strong shoulders, as if to push him off, but the bigger man grips his ass tighter, bobs his head more forcefully still staring up at him. With a high-pitched cry, the smaller man finishes hard, staring into those amazing, multicolored eyes. Clint gets both of them a sloppy mess as the release leaks out around the dick in his mouth. Luis' cock pulses against the archer's tongue, the back of his throat, the roof of his mouth as he keeps moving until the smaller man is shaking, never pulling his eyes away, drinking up the site of the younger man falling apart. 


	99. Summer breeze, makes me feel fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buck and Steve share pain and pleasure.

Buck fiddles with the electric heater, Steve still on his hip, for a lot longer than he should need to. His state makes him groggy and sluggish, the blonde's relaxed exhaustion leaking into him. He is very near to kicking it, which would no doubt destroy it, when Steve - ever the machine whisperer - reaches down and pushes the right sequence of buttons he had seen the Soldier use before. 

"Dere'go, sweethear'," he mumbles, punctuating his sentence with, "Bed." 

They're asleep in minutes after the big man settles them in under the covers. Their limbs are a tangle, Steve's face pressed into Buck's neck as they breath slow and deep, chest to chest. Neither has any idea how long they are out before it happens. They just sort of come to on a bench, an older style with ornate metal work at each end that makes up the legs, armrests and sides, with wooden planks slid through holes in the iron to form the seat and backrest. 

It faces a playground - there are big coils topped with metal animals, a spider web type dome made of pipe, chain swings with wooden seats, two metal slides (one a bit bigger than the other), and a roundabout painted in primary colors. Children play, the sky a perfect blue overhead and accented by a few fluffy white clouds. The surrounding emerald green grassy land - dotted with trees - is ringed with tall brick buildings just across the streets that border each edge. Their windows glint in the sun. It is breathtaking how beautiful the whole scene is, bucolic and urban simultaneously. 

"I know this park. I used to walk here from our building in Brooklyn sometimes. But...it didn't look like this. It was...run down. Everything rusty. There were newer buildings too."

He eyes the kids - their clothing style is something Steve has only seen in pictures and glass cases in vintage shops.

"This isn't like I remember," he says softly, turning to look at the person sitting next to him. "Maybe it's -"

The blonde could _feel_ that it was Buck there, never questioned that the shape in his periphery would be anyone except the Soldier. But as he speaks and turns towards his bench companion, words fail him. The guy is tall, young - probably late-teens judging from the muscle starting to fill out his slightly gangly limbs and the shadow of facial hair below the smooth skin of his face - and has a pale brown, bordering on olive, complexion. Bright blue-gray eyes, almost aqua in the sun, sit below brows that are dark auburn like the young man's short, thick hair. His lips are a deep reddish-pink. He's gorgeous, familiar, yet utterly foreign.

Steve stands, stumbles a few steps away. The young man rises as well, speaks in a voice he knows well. 

"It is alright," Buck says from the stranger's mouth. "This is my memory. This is a good place. I brought my sisters here to be safe, when he was drunk and angry." 

He turns to eye three girls - each of them resembling him a bit though some of them darker complected and all with darker hair - as they swing. The oldest is in her early teens, the youngest probably not out of elementary school.

"B-Buck? I don't...I don't understand. You..." The blonde motions to the other man's face and then makes a sweeping gesture down his body. "You don't...look like you." 

The young man holds his arms out, surveys the not-at-all gray skin, the decidedly non-metallic left arm. "Oh," the young man says softly, hands moving up to touch his face, his hair, and then finally slide into his mouth, press against his very human teeth. "This must be as I was then." 

The mechanic slowly steps forward, looks deep into his eyes, then nods. Buck smiles. The girls suddenly run over, a flurry of motion and chatter, begging him to use his money from his new job to take them for root beer floats. He concedes, an accent slipping into his voice that's very distinct. 

"You're from Brooklyn," Steve marvels, hanging back with the young man as the girls skip ahead, giggling. 

"It would appear so," Buck returns, carefully taking the smaller man's hand. 

"Can we...can we do this here? Now?" He looks around at the people passing on the street.

"We are not actually in the 1970s. We fell asleep, in the dome," the tall man offers.

"Right. Sorry. It just..looks and feels -" he squeezes Buck's flesh left hand - "so real." 

"I had this dream several times recently. I am... remembering a bit more, since the day we met the Valkyrie. Usually it just plays out, like I am performing in the same movie each time, like when I spoke to the girls earlier. I do not really see myself, just the girls through _his_ eyes - my eyes - and I hear his voice rather than my own. Things feel more muddled, surreal. Not like this. The bond must have brought you here with me, made it _more_ than a dream or a memory." 

"Like we're in the Matrix," Steve muses.

"The what?" 

"Old movie my mom liked. Once people realized they were living in a simulation, they could bend it however they wanted." 

Buck watches one of the girls pluck a daisy from next to the sidewalk and tuck it behind her ear. He stops, picks one, offers it to Steve with a little smile. "Hmm, your supposition seems correct. I never picked one before in my dream, never even considered it." 

The blonde smiles back at him as he takes it, tucks the stem in the button hole of his shirt so the head of the flower looks like a broach. They take the girls for floats, to the boardwalk, play games. Steve wins Buck a rather absurd stuffed bear and they eat massive quantities of hot dogs, the cash in the tall man's trouser pockets never running out. It's so good to be in the city again, even if it looks far different through the lens of Buck's memory than it did when Steve lived there. 

Finally they head to their family home, the girls leading the way. Steve can feel the tension rising in Buck and even his sisters are somber. 

"Maybe he's asleep," the oldest, Becca, offers. 

When they enter, the living room is quiet, empty. The siblings breathe a collective sigh of relief, but then a big man with reddish-brown hair and gray eyes stalks from the kitchen. 

"Go'ta yer room," Buck orders the girls, old Brooklyn slipping back into his voice - Steve realizes this is part of the script, part of what _really_ happened. 

"Outta my way!" the man orders as he tries to follow, the young man blocking the stairwell. "Thos'lil bitches need to learn a lesson about breakin' my things!" 

"Pop, I'm warnin' ya. Leave the girls be," Buck responds tersely - he looks up at the man with hard eyes, but Steve can feel the fear rolling through him.

"Ya think yer tough now, huh? Yer a big man because ya put a few inches on? Brought home a lil paycheck? Got hair on yer tiny nutsack?" He slaps Buck across the face, hard, the crack of it echoing in the small house. "Doesn't matter if yah get ten feet tall and filthy rich. Ain't no _queer_ ever gonna whip my ass." 

"Oh yeah?" Steve offers, before he slugs the man hard in the face.

The blonde jumps on him, grabs him by the shirtfront and pummels him again and again with his fist until he's spitting blood. He drags the big man out of the house and into the back yard as Buck follows, then throws him into an open tool shed.

"You wanna do the honors?" Steve asks, pulling the open padlock from the hasp on the door. 

Buck takes it, stares at his father on his knees inside the doorway. "You will never hurt our family again," he growls.

The tall young man slams the door shut, closes the hasp over the staple and locks the padlock through the metal loop. After staring at it for a long moment, breathing hard, he turns a hot gaze on Steve. Grabbing both sides of the blonde's face, he hunches down into a hard, clumsy kiss. This version of Buck's body had only done this with one boy, a few years before, been caught the fifth or sixth time doing so in this very shed. He was whipped with the buckle end of his father's belt while his mother desparately tried to protect him - she got a black eye for her trouble. 

The feel of Steve's lips working against his brings Buck back to his current self. When he opens his eyes again, it is to the lightning flashing through the big glass dome and the glow of the electric fireplace lighting Steve's face in blue and orange. The mechanic's eyes are dark and he is panting. 

"There you are," the blonde says with awe, touching the Soldier's face. "There you are. So beautiful." 

Steve slides his thumb over Buck's lower lip then into his mouth to press lightly against the tip of a sharp, pointed canine. A drop of blood falls onto the bigger man's tongue and he has not even finished the groan it pulls from him before Steve is on top of him. He ruts against the Soldier as the big man sucks the blonde's thumb - with their height difference, Steve's erection is against the bigger man's belly. The Soldier feels wetness spread from it in a slick trail as the mechanic pulls his hand away, presses his lips to Buck's, insistently slides his tongue into the brunette's mouth.

The bigger man grips Steve's narrow hips, urges him to rock on top of him as the blonde moves to kiss and lick and suck down his neck. The Soldier hears the slurp and pop of the mechanic's fingers being sucked into his own mouth and then drawn back out, feels the hot press of them against his hole moments later after the blonde adjusts his position, sitting up on his knees between the other man's long legs, bent and splayed open. 

A finger is slid into him much faster than usual, but he is already so wet. He moans, rubs one lavender nipple in slow circles with a metal finger as he looks up at Steve. The blonde's expression is pure passion, eyes slightly hooded and burning into him, full mouth hanging open. A second digit goes into Buck, then a third. He whimpers at the feeling of being _stuffed_ \- the mechanic is not hurting him, not being too rough, but he is far more urgent than usual. 

Steve pushes his hand forward and up repeatedly, going deep, then curling his fingers hard on the way out to rub Buck's prostate firmly with all three fingertips. It does not take much of this perfect pressure before the Soldier's cock is dribbling fluid, wetness practically gushing out of his hole. He plants both feet on the floor, knees pointed at the ceiling, and puts his weight on his shoulders. Angling his back and hips up off the floor is an obvious invitation, one the little mechanic does not need spelled out. 

A hand squeezes Buck's flank, urges him to lower a bit as Steve lines the fat head of his cock up with the Soldier's entrance. The blonde pushes in only a bit, just the very tip starting to open him. Steve spits in his already-slick hand, rubs his saliva and the brunette's own wetness down his length, then moves to mirror the position of his other hand, gripping the Soldier just below his hips. The blonde gives out a low, long moan as he gradually moves forward, the fat head pushing open Buck's tight rim. It feels amazing and a guttural cry breaks out of the bigger man. 

The push of the head into him is slow but constant - the Soldier feels it force him open in the most delicious way a fraction of an inch at a time, the thick shaft filling him bit by bit in its wake. They both let out rough, broken noises, Buck's hands fisting in the blankets as his eyes - now periwinkle - glow brighter and Steve clutches him harder. The blonde keeps advancing until the Soldier feels Steve's sac, hot and full, graze his ass. 

There is a still moment as they stare at each other, breathing hard, faces twisted in pleasure and something like shock. They have never tumbled together so easily before - the feedback of arousal flowing between them over their bond drowns out everything else except the need for each other. Steve pulls nearly all the way out and eases back in, pace just as measured as before, not fast but insistent. 

Feeling it spread him, fill him, the second time is just as breathtaking as the first - better even as his body adjusts to the hardness inside him - and Buck whimpers, legs trembling not with effort but from the sensations flooding him. On the edges of his senses he can feel Steve's enjoyment, a sort of formless heat that goes right through him. After a few more identical movements, the blonde starts to speed up, changes the motions of his hips - dropping them down a bit, rolling up and forward, then straight back out - fucking him a bit more shallow, force not light but not harsh, rubbing over his prostate as he pulls out.

Buck eventually feels more and more of the length going in him on each thrust until Steve's fully inside again, the blonde's balls making a tantalizing little noise as he feels them slap against his cheeks near the bottom of his rim. Soon, Steve is pumping into him deep, only taking his cock out a few inches before pushing it completely home, moving in such a way to drag his thick shift back and forth across the Soldier's sensitive spot hard. 

There are no words for how incredible it is and neither attempts to form any. The air is filled with their moans, tattered breath and the sound of skin on skin, of the noises Buck's sloppy, wet hole makes as Steve pounds it. The Soldier lifts his upper back off the ground as well, leaning up to use his only points of contact with the ground - forearms and feet - to rock himself in time with Steve's thrusts, both of them urging the other to speed up with their movements until they are at a near frantic pace. The Soldier stares hungrily at Steve's mouth, his dark pink nipples, little abs working under the pale, soft skin as he moves, the motion of his hips, Buck's own lips hanging wide open as he shamelessly bellows again and again. 

"Huu-u-uh! Hu-u-u-uh! Hu-u-u-uh!" starts to come out of the Soldier - high, wavering and even more overwhelmed - before he screams, releasing incredibly hard as his body convulses and vision whites out.

It is long minutes before Buck is even semi-aware again. His back is mostly flat, legs drawn up high, resting on the balls of his feet, hips still slightly elevated. The lathe of something hot on his abdomen draws his attention - he slowly lifts his head to see Steve greedily licking Buck's release from his body, humming and groaning at the taste. The Soldier's moan is surprise, arousal, approval. It is like the mechanic wants to devour every part of him as he slides lower, tongue going briefly over the bigger man's cock head then moving to lick Buck's own wetness from the back of his balls, then his crack. The blonde lets out an indescribably heated sound.

"Gooodddddd, you taste like maple syrup here," Steve says huskily, then slides his tongue along the cleft again.

Buck's head slams back and a rumble forms deep in his belly and chest before escaping his mouth as Steve pushes his tongue into the bigger man's hole. The blonde pulls it out to lick and suck at the Soldier's rim and entrance, to slurp his wetness out of him hungrily. It is sloppy, uncoordinated, but oh so good, not something Buck would have ever asked for or expected to be offered. When the brunette is fully hard again in one of Steve's slick hands, the mechanic sits up, still-full cock shiny in the firelight. He grips Buck's hands, urges him to rise, repositions the Soldier so his forearms and chest lean on the seat of a heavy chair next to the fireplace, the bigger man's knees and shins pressed to the floor, still on the edge of the comforter. 

The smaller man tilts the Soldier's hips back, slides his length along the cleft of Buck's ass, head pushing gently against his balls and then drawing back, rutting against the bigger man for a while as his crack gets so slick. Buck whines needfully, tries to position himself to be entered each time Steve draws back, but the blonde keeps teasing him for a while before suddenly thrusting in. He is so wet, so open, and his hole swallows the mechanic's length easily.

"God, Buck, god," Steve rumbles against his back as he slides fully in, their sacs lightly pressing together. "I could _feel_ you cumming." He starts rocking into him, pulling half out and then burying himself. "So good. It's so fucking good, and I can _feel_ how much you want it, how much you love it. How much you _love me_. Fuck, I love you so much too, sweetheart. So much." Steve presses his face between Buck's shoulder blades to feel the big man moan, then moves to mouth along the Soldier's spine. His narrow hips move precisely the same each time, filling Buck deep and steady. "Gonna be inside you whenever, wherever, you want it from now on. So silly before, to refuse you, when you love it so much. When you feel so goddamn amazing." 

One of the blonde's arms is locked around his waist, other hand sliding around to lightly stroke the Soldier's cock, then lower to cup and squeeze his balls, push them back slightly so Steve's slap more firmly against them on each forward movement. That makes them both get louder. It isn't long before they can feel each other's orgasms building, their sounds coming out in unison. They finish at the same time, release washing over both of them, shared and amplified stronger and stronger as they wail, until both of them literally black out in a heap.


	100. You can go your own way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality sets in.
> 
> ***Hey gang! Just want to say thanks for the continued reads, kudos and bookmarks. Your comments are all great to get with everything going on and I'm so happy with how many people are enjoying my crazy story. I do have a definite path for this and ending (to this Claptrap tale at least, though I've already got a swimming pool full of sequel ideas) plotted out, so thanks for baring with me. Be safe. Read porn. Rock on.***

The next morning in the hotel is quiet, the adrenaline high of running - because it wasn't really winning when half the army was still out there, and probably Zola too - wearing off. Most of the freed stick to their rooms, enjoying their temporary privacy - sleeping off hangovers or mourning those they were forced to leave behind. A few clusters make the long walk up to use the pool or the basketball court and group meals are still served in the dining hall. Ramos and Washington patrol the building, keep the peace, while Red guards the penthouse, never too far from his current handler or the others he's been tasked by Luis with protecting.

When the green-eyed man woke up that morning, he was the only one in the big bed. He threw himself into pick up games, trying not to take it personally, trying hard to be understanding about the others' shared loss (and near loss), give them space even though that was exactly what he himself didn't want. Last night was a good distraction in the moment, but after the atmosphere in the room was heavy, everyone curling in on themselves. He tries to push down the feeling that maybe he's a passing amusement for them - stress relief, entertainment, experimentation. It's not like he knows these people, he reminds himself, or what they usually get up to. It's probably just weeks of shared craziness and how fucking lonely he'd been since Val left the settlement that's made him feel like he does, like he's becoming part of something, important to someone. 

Val wasn't in love with him, never would have been, but their relationship was the closest thing to a real connection he'd had since the collapse other than Winter. Emotionally it felt like Luis was breathing normally for the first time after a months-long asthma attack once his bond with Winter flared back to life, but that was at risk now too. He can't stop Steve saying _mine_ replaying in his head and it makes a knot twist in his belly. He could _feel_ the blonde and Winter were bonded now - different and even deeper than he had ever been with the bigger man - and that probably made Luis obsolete to the Soldier, the outdated model. Pulse Buddy Version 1.0. 

Steve was in love with Buck. Had sex with him. Luis couldn't compete with that already, though he'd stupidly tried when the mechanic was at the dump. He didn't tell the others, hadn't wanted to start a problem or try to explain something so difficult to put words to, but in the bathroom he could feel - through Winter - how _angry_ Steve got when Luis came near. It wasn't protectiveness, like he'd felt from the big man towards himself before. It was possessiveness, crazypants level jealousy. Maybe he should pack his shit (all one duffel bag of it) and gtfo once they got back to Claptrap. Muriel and Alicia would be safe there, taken care of. He can't latch on to someone(s) again just to get ditched, especially when he'll have to _see_ them everyday after trapped in a tiny town where everyone knows everything.

When Jasper opens his eye, he's alone in the bedroom; he takes that as a hint and doesn't go looking for Paul. What would he say anyway? Thanks for the pity sex? When was the last time you got tested? He sits in the penthouse office, trying to reconcile the person he was when he ruled with an iron fist from behind a desk (even more expensive than this one) with the person he is now. Mulling over the events that have transpired since Steve and then the Soldier entered Claptrap is an uncomfortable exercise in self-reflection, considering his life in general even more so.

Sitwell would have never called Coulson or Hill his friends - not out loud and probably not even to himself. He isn't sure he has any friends, has ever had any, and that's something he's grown familiar - if not comfortable - with. But he feels a sort of emptiness at the other ex-ops' absences. At least they understood where he came from, had some modicum of respect for who and what he was before. In particular he has to ask why Maria did not tell the others about Fury's plan, and Jasper's role in it, when she was in charge of the Soldier in the facility. 

She was separated from the others by the unbreakable glass barrier and (she probably thought) free from consequence. Had she intended to protect Jasper if things went south or was it just an oversight in her moment of triumph, something no longer relevant since she planned to kill them all anyway? To find out she was anti-immigrant, probably anti-Latino, was a shock too, given her knowledge of his own mixed heritage. That always hurt worse than just knowing someone thought little of you outright - that they could smile to your face and yet think you were beneath them. Like Paul moving to sleep on the floor, his unhelpfully circling mind offers.

Clint works out early, before Nat is up even (a first for him). He'd been awake a long time, thinking about the night before, the last few weeks, staring at the rest of them asleep (_like a total creeper, like a total Jasper_, he thinks to himself). Slamming the heavybag with no gloves until his knuckles split wasn't the best plan, but the pain focuses and distracts him simultaneously. After, he spends far longer than he should in the sauna, thinking about Stevie - which leads to thinking about Tommy and how he'd failed them both, how others had to shoulder the burden of protecting _him_ and saving Nat (regardless of what she said). Even dorky Sitwell had been a BAMF. _So much for keeping the family safe, Greta._ And did she have to remind Clint how stupid he was with almost her literal dying breath? Like he wasn't aware.

He tries to get it together, to make himself useful. Taking water, clean clothes and food up to the dome - reheated leftover mac'n'cheese and a plate of stuff the Soldier can eat - seemed like a good start. Buck is more calm, but the archer avoids getting too close to their bed (they're buttass naked anyway and he's pretty sure they did it), leaving the stuff twenty feet away on a table. He tries not to be weird and needy, but he only goes after multiple assurances they don't require anything else and he gets a good long eyeful of Stevie moving and talking. There's not fuckall else to do, so he takes the bow he'd pulled from the armory supplies and shoots a bunch of holes in shitty, printed corporate artwork in the hallways while he does flips, then climbs everything he can, trying hard not to think about the massive bar in the penthouse. 

Steve watches the Soldier pad naked to the supplies after the archer leaves - he bends over to reach the short table without any shame to retrieve them. The blonde's face heats up as the events of the night before rush back to him, and his dick does this balloon animal trick under the covers. It had been indescribably intense, the emotional connection layered over their physical union only confirming everything he'd ever hoped about how the bigger man felt. But what the fuck? He'd just spent what felt like months getting chased, tortured and raped. The last thing he should have wanted - should want now - is sex. 

Their bond is still there, but it's soft, like a radio playing so quietly in the background you can't make out the tune. He intentionally tries not to focus on it, tries to just feel his own feelings. Since early evening of the previous day and then well past morning today they had been some level of out of it - sharing the pulse, then feed-drunk after, lost in each other's minds (and bodies). How had he went from psychologically shattered to licking his boyfriend's ass for the first time in only a few hours? What started as a hint of innocent passion in their shared experience in old Brooklyn exploded into the most intense need he'd ever felt. It was so much more than lust - it was like their minds and hearts and souls were touching as they moved together. He was terrified of how lost he'd been to it, afraid he'd pushed himself on Buck, manipulated him somehow with their bond. 

Nat thought to look for Clint, spar a bit, but after she doesn't immediately find him in the gym she wanders off to drink alone in the living room, reading the book Hill left on the chaise lounge. She was a master assassin, a spy, trained from an early age to see the things others did not. Yet Maria and Phil had both slipped under her radar, both assholes almost costing her Clint and if Steve had been lost to Crossbones he would have never been the same. It had been some odd coincidence the archer had found a surrogate little brother after losing his real one and it was unlikely that void could be filled again.

Speaking of filling voids, had it been the wrong move fucking Luis? Giving him carte blanche with Clint? She hadn't minded Win with her husband - it was fun to watch honestly and she didn't really think the two of them would fall for each other, not like the archer had fallen for her. In the moment it sounded like a good idea - the kid was certainly sexy and attentive - and she sees what all the fuss was about in the physical department. She was no stranger to a casual fuck; it didn't need to _mean_ anything and she'd be even less likely to get any fee-fees over him than the welder for Clint. Maybe she was trying to force something that just wouldn't be there, making herself feel like this was all fine because it had some kind of structure, order. She couldn't make her relationship with a single person smooth - how could four people do it? She wants Clint to get what he needs from other people because it's painfully obvious she can't provide it, but she also wants to piss around him like a territorial predator. 

No partner (the very few she'd bothered to get past non-conversational fucking with) had ever lasted more than a few months - most only weeks - before Clint (and she had tried it all, because why not?). He was immensely stubborn in pursuing her for a _date_ (gag), irritatingly astute at learning her tells and idiosyncrasies, shockingly tolerant of her attitude (occasionally giving back, when she really went too far, which helped her keep respect for him). He had been open to, and eventually very enthusiastic about, her sexual predilections. Certainly she couldn't expect all that of the others. She wasn't sure how to heed Greta's words - letting the others in, really in, only meant suffering, but shutting them out meant eventually they'd tire of her or her (incredibly predictable) eventual interference in their relationships with each other. If they came behind the glass, the game was up - they'd realize there was no great mystery to solve there, no deep inner world they were being granted access to - just emptiness. 

Win hides in the master walk-in with a pile of photos from their first stay at the hotel, crying silently and avoiding the others. The tears are mostly for Greta, but a few are for Phil as well, for what the two had together. She still wants to believe it was real between them, the way it had been with her husband, but also realizes how vulnerable it made them both. If Coulson weren't concerned with sparing Greta, he would have succeeded. If the older woman hadn't been blinded by her emotions, she would have never trusted him to be involved with her kids in the first place, would have picked up on some odd behavior that tipped her off. 

_ _The welder tells herself that she made the right choice distancing herself emotionally from Steve those years ago. He had a knack for almost dying and as hard as it was to see him comatose and know what had happened to him, she can only imagine the pain if they were _romantically involved_. Was that what she was now? She questions if she's making a mistake opening herself up to the others the way she has as of late, wonders why she's finding it hard to keep her distance. The doors around parts of herself are meticulously welded shut, but lately she feels a pull at their hinges._ _

_ _At first it had been easy to say it was just fun, just sex - first with Luis then Nat and now Clint - and she wants to chalk last night up to just stress relief, a good time. She doesn't suffer bullshit though, not even from herself. Win wanted to feel safe, secure - something Clint had always done, looking after her and Steve, protecting them despite their protests. Maybe what she'd wanted deep down wasn't just sex, but the archer's warm, reassuring, comfortable presence. It had been great though - to feel his strong body, to be _in control of it_. Watching him on his knees with Luis after was the second most attractive thing she'd ever seen. _ _

_ _The first being Natasha naked. She has a long history with the assassin, a little torch of a crush carried privately for quite a while she never acknowledged. There's something different about the redhead when they're together, always has been. Something easier in the way she smiles, relaxed to the set of her shoulders. Win's not a fool though - she's seen the way Nat treats her husband, keeps him at arm's length, pushes and pulls at him mentally. His hopeless, blind devotion is a lot more than Win would ever offer to anyone - she doesn't _do_ getting stepped on - and it still wasn't enough to bore more than a few inches into the assassin's icy facade. Still, Nat had surprised Win admitting she was attracted to Luis, trying to make peace with him in her emotionally stunted way._ _

_ _Luis. He was about the easiest person to get along with in the world - trusting, funny, giving and sweet. And of course disturbingly good looking (she has a good feeling she has Steve to blame for the mohawk thing, though she doesn't doubt he's had one before with his taste in body adornment and music). She feels worst of all for him, walking into all their mess, putting himself into harm's way for these relative strangers. And what would he really get in return besides some (arguably very excellent) sex? Win knows that won't be enough for him, wonders if it would ever be enough for her if she was honest. Navigating falling for someone who will obviously fall so hard in return with the slightest nudge, especially while falling for someone who will never, ever even hint if they've fallen back is a sisyphian task, made even harder when both of those folks are begrudgingly in love - or getting there - with the very fat dicked other person she had just started sleeping with. It's too many goddamn moving parts and that's Steve's department - attaching things so they don't come apart is hers and she's not sure she's got the equipment for this job._ _

Outside, like within, the storm rages. Something clings in the shadows, waiting.


	101. Doin' it and doin' it and doin' it well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has unfinished business finishing can't solve.

Steve is contemplating how he felt like his heart and soul touched Buck's during their physical intimacy when a familiar voice pipes up, way louder than it normally is unless he's raging out.

Bullhead. 

**Heart and soul! Gag. God, you're cheesy. Oh, mmm. Cheesy. **

Steve's stomach is suddenly painfully rumbling at the smell of the food - he scarfs the bowl of mac, watches Buck watching him as the bigger man slowly eats the fresh produce and rare steak Clint had brought. The Soldier looks uncharacteristically shy and like he feels just as overwhelmed as Steve does. The blonde tentatively focuses on their bond and finds Buck's mental state very similar to his own. Everything from their time in the mind-hell Crossbones sent him to, along with the horrors they experienced before, is starting to leak in. The dam the pulse-bond had formed around it all was cracking - the mechanic can sense there are things Buck has not told him, awful things. It's amazing - and unnerving - how much everything that transpired between them since they escaped that twisted version of his memories had dulled the sting of his captivity, even the horrors at Brock's truck. The pulse-bond, the afterglow, the 

** incredibly hot two car pile up we caused in Buck's downtown**

love making, had made those terrible events feel distant and muted his questions. 

**Like, where the fuck is the old bat? I actually like that one.**

"Where's Greta?" Steve asks simply, but the expression on Buck's face - the dull panic and sadness he picks up over the bond - seems to unlock something in the blonde. "What about Monet? Who's that other guy? The one that looks like an older me if Cillian Murphy was my grandfather."

**Cheekbones had better keep his piercing blue eyes off our man if he wants to live.**

"How did Crossbones die? Are you positive he's dead?" the blonde continues.

Buck looks at the plate and says nothing. He sets it down, sighs hard as he moves to touch Steve's arm, opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates and reaches higher. The Soldier's big, warm flesh hand rests lightly over the blonde's face, surprising him - fingertips are on his forehead and cheeks, palm on his nose and lips, heel of his hand on Steve's chin. Between the gray fingers the mechanic can see the brunette close his eyes, concentrate. The bond flares incredibly strong and a flood of confused emotions and tangled sensations go through him, eventually accompanied by images, sounds. It's garbled and sporadic, but it evens out so that he sees and hears enough to answer the basics and then some. The image of himself naked in Crossbones' bed with the thing's hand on his face, feeding on his misery, is especially terrifying, but he realizes witnessing that gave Buck some inkling of how to connect himself and Steve like this. 

Had Crossbones pushed things into Steve's mind? Was the Rumlowthing in the mind-hell a piece of the real monster's psyche, or at least infected with it? Was some part of Steve now Brock? He wants to throw up, to sick up all the delicious, creamy noodles, to run away so Buck is as far from whatever might be inside him as possible. Then the Soldier shows him other things - their friends caring for, weeping over, the blonde's comatose body, Buck's desparation as he tries to bring him back, the pain of their separation an indescribably terrible thing for the Soldier. Then there's the beautiful, warm connection of Steve returning with him, the immense joy Buck had felt. Steve has to stay, be strong, protect the Soldier from everything (even himself), do whatever it takes to make him happy now that he feels how wonderful that is through the other man's senses.

When Buck's hand pulls away and the mechanic opens his eyes - not realizing he'd closed them - tears are streaming down his face and the Soldier's as well. The bond goes low again. Steve can ignore its pull if he wants, push it down further even he thinks. But he doesn't _want_, not that at least. He moves the empty bowl, climbs into the Soldier's lap, curling his legs under him. Nuzzling against Buck's neck, Steve urges the big man's arms around him - he feels a tentative happiness and contentment from the other man, but it darkens.

"Show me," the Soldier says simply. 

The blonde puts his own hand to the bigger man's face, focuses. The brunette sobs and cries out repeatedly as he sees and hears (and maybe feels, though Steve tries so hard to hold that part back) what the mechanic's time in the mind-hell had been like, what Brock had done to him.

"I am so sorry!" Buck gasps as soon as the blonde pulls his hand away, wet with the bigger man's tears. "I did not protect you! I did not find you fast enough in that place! I...I kissed you, made you engage me physically after he -" 

"No!" the blonde says firmly. "**I** ran off half-cocked. **I** let the past poison me. You risked everything to save me, body and mind. And what happened last night was -"

**Earth shattering. Mind blowing. The single greatest experience of our entire goddamn life and holy fuck when can we do it again, you sweet piece?!**

"- very, very good. Very wanted. You didn't push your...arousal on me through the bond. If anything I worry it was the opposite."

"No. No. I very much wanted you. I always do." 

"Speaking of," Steve looks at his hands. "I may not...want certain things for a while. Sexually. Do you remember the rules, after we started -"

**jerking off hardcore together, you magnificent beast**

" - doing sexual things in front of each other, but before I let you -"

**make us cum so MOTHERFUCKIN' HARD**

"- touch me like that?" 

"Of course. Avoid your off limits area." Buck puts his hands sideways, one at his hips and one at his thighs. "Be sure that you see me before I touch you in any way. Do not assume permission to do something once is blanket permission." 

"Perfect. I think...I may need to go back to that, for a bit at least." 

"I understand entirely if you do not want to engage in anything sexual with me... or near me." The Soldier gives him this look, like he could sense what Steve's mind had been focused on minutes before - the blonde blushes. 

"I...I still want to do things for you. And _be inside you_, if you want," the mechanic offers softly.

**Fuuuuck yes, good decision.**

"But even if I'm... pleasuring you -"

**fucking your brains out until you squeal**

"- just know, unless I ask, or move your hands, those rules would still apply. I'm sorry. This isn't fair to -" 

**Your dick.**

"- your dick." Steve blinks hard - did he just say that outloud?

"My genitals are not my priority. I only wish for you to feel safe and happy," Buck says as he frowns - Steve can feel his sincerity like a lead weight in the back of his mind. 

"Show me again, _him_ dying. Please," Steve requests. "I need to believe he's dead. Really believe it." 

"I thought you may say that. We need to go for a walk." The Soldier looks down at his penis. "We may wish to put on clothing."

The freed in the big first floor kitchen give Buck a wide berth as they eye the blonde and the mechanic knows _they know_ about the _other Steve_ from their facial expressions. It hadn't been easy to learn about Paul - flickers of him came from Buck, the hair he had in the Soldier's memories a dead giveaway someone had tried to make him look like Steve, his barely covered body filthy and littered with wounds. Surprisingly, he doesn't feel guilty - it isn't his fault Brock was an obsessed sadist - but he has immense empathy for the other man. 

Now Steve and Buck are alone in the big industrial kitchen, staring at a canvas bag with something oddly shaped inside that the taller man had placed on the metal counter. The Soldier takes a kitchen knife and cuts the sack away, revealing a silver tray inside, coated in something slimy and black. On it rests Crossbones' head and what appears to be his genitals. Steve's eyes get huge - the head is still moving, eyes blinking, lips quivering. 

"You said he was dead," the mechanic whispers. 

"It has no bloodflow. It cannot truly be alive. It must be some type of muscle spasm or nerves that are still firing. I burnt the body to ashes, as you saw in my mind. I thought you could do the same, with the rest." Buck gestures at the collection of parts.

Steve contemplates the Brockthing for a moment, a strange look coming over his face, then turns and walks out of the room without a word. He heads straight to the lounge they passed, right to where he'd seen Paul watching a movie with some of the others, notably alone on a couch when all the others are packed onto every piece of furniture. The blonde eyes the scarred bitemarks on the other man's neck.

"I need your help with something," Steve says simply and Paul - by no means his twin in looks, the mechanic notes, but with enough resemblance to be an older cousin - doesn't say a word as he stands and follows the blonde back to the kitchen. 

The mechanic opens and then turns on one of the big industrial wall ovens, sets it as hot as it will go, then eyes Buck. "Leave us alone, please." 

The Soldier looks between them, then nods and walks out. Steve watches Paul watching the head.

"Buck says he isn't actually alive. It's a reflex or some shit, if you believe that." 

The dark haired man leans down, looks into the maroon eyes. "You know what I think? I think you're in there, fuckwad." He flicks Crossbones' forehead hard. "I think you can see and hear and feel everything." 

The slightly older man looks at Steve and the mechanic knows immediately this isn't about if Crossbones is aware, it's about them getting to believe he is. Paul looks around in a few drawers, takes two meat mallets out, hands one to the blonde. They look at each other a long time before they turn to the tray in unison and just start swinging and screaming things at it. Steve smashes Brock's balls and they burst like two ink-filled water balloons, then wails on the shrivelled, scarred cock until it's paste. Paul hammers at Crossbones' mouth until the gums fall apart, until some of the jagged fangs can be pried lose with the knife Buck used - the teeth themselves are indestructible but not the tissue and nerves that hold them into the sockets. Finally, both of them hit its face again and again and again. They can't damage the skeleton, but the tissue doesn't heal anymore - they obliterate every trace of his appearance, even his ears. 

Finally Steve throws the black and gray tissue covered mallet into the sink and grabs one handle of the tray, Paul following suit. They carry it to the oven and put it inside - they can still see the lipless mouth moving as they close the door, as they stare through the glass front when the rotten flesh starts to bubble and char and then bursts into flames. They sit on the counter and watch until there's nothing left but a skull on a scorched metal tray.

"Steve Rogers," the blonde offers, holding out a black spattered hand.

"Paul O'Connor," the dark haired man returns, shaking it. 

Steve feels something dark seep out of him, bleed into the air. Something warm and needy takes its place - he decides to just go with it. 

"I think... I'm gonna go make my boyfriend cum if he's down." 

"You kids have fun. I'm off to finish the Princess Bride." 

"Nice meeting you, Paul." 

"You too, Steve." 

The blonde finds the Soldier just outside - from the look on his face he heard everything. _Everything_. The bond bubbles up hot and Steve grabs Buck by the shirt and leads him into the pantry, pulls him down on their tablecloth bed still laying there. Fuck worrying about how he _should_ feel, how he was supposed to process. They both want this so much it hurts. It isn't long before they're in a spooning position, pants pulled to their thighs, bent knees nearly slotted together. The mechanic fucks the bigger man almost greedily, forehead pressed to his back, reveling in feeling the vibration of Buck's moans, the Soldier wrapping the metal arm around to gently grip the back of Steve's neck. When the Soldier cums hard across the tile floor, Steve doesn't let himself go over. He pumps the bigger man through it, then past it, then through another, before just falling asleep with his hard cock inside Buck. 

The mechanic wakes later - tablecloth haphazardly thrown over them by some poor unsuspecting individual who'd wandered in - when the Soldier grinds his hips back until the blonde engorges fully again inside him. Steve rolls them so the Soldier is on his belly, pushes his legs wide with his own, shoves both their t-shirts up and sprawls over Buck, curling his arms around the front of the bigger man to grip his shoulders. He takes Buck slow and deep, barely pulling out at all before pushing forward, their sacs touching nearly the whole time, his belly and chest plastered to the other man's broad, muscular back. More skin to skin contact makes the bond even stronger - Buck's pleasure and affection and need fill Steve and he can sense his own flowing back in return. 

Opening himself to it farther lets more precise physical sensations come through as well - someone on top of him, inside him. Buck loves what the blonde is doing to him, how it feels beneath Steve, and that carries through. But it's still too much like being against Brock's truck for the mechanic - he suppresses his panic, not wanting the Soldier to feel it, pulls back from their bond until he just feels the warm glow of the other man's enjoyment and not the specifics of what's causing it. Soon Steve's relaxed and it's perfect again, beautiful, all consuming. He buries himself fully in the Soldier right as he feels Buck about to pop, goes still and lets the other man's blissed out writhing and pulsing hole work Steve's own release out of him. 

Walking around the hotel after another nap (okay, brief unconsciousness), they stop random places to cuddle, to talk and use the bond, hands on each other's faces, sharing all kinds of things. More than once they're both crying or falling into hysterics - Buck's endearingly stupid laugh is so loud echoing in the big building and it warms Steve's chest to hear it. It's shocking every time how strong their sexual need for each other becomes with only slight provocation. They'd wanted each other a long time before they'd touched, then had many excellent sexual experiences - certainly neither lacked for a libido, even though they'd moved tentatively given both their histories and insecurities. But now it's like every intense emotion shared between them, every touch that lingers a bit too long, gets them in a feedback loop of need and lust that gets stronger and stronger until they're going at it with zero hesitation or regard for anything else. 

Steve is on his knees in front of a fake leather loveseat in an alcove lounge on the second floor with Buck's bare legs over his shoulders. The chartreuse material makes obscene squeaking noises as he fucks the Soldier steadily, curling forward so he can kiss Buck and run his hands all over him. The big man's arms are bent up and back, hands clutching the top of the sofa to either side of his head (presumably to keep them to himself as he had promised). 

"Oh for fuck's sake!" a familiar voice suddenly barks out.

Steve turns his head to see Clint covering his eyes with his hands - his knuckles are coated in dried blood and a bow and quiver are strung across his back (which the mechanic realizes is odd, even in his current state, since they're snug as a bug in this place). 

"Passing out post hump in the pantry wasn't bad enough, you two? I've seen more of your junk today than I needed to see in a lifetime. That old man cook was about having a heart attack when he flagged me down. Both of you - pants up and back upstairs! Right now!" 

Buck whimpers. "Please make me finish first," he whispers in Steve's ear - a shockwave of raw need goes through their bond and the mechanic slowly starts thrusting again without even meaning to.

"I CAN HEAR THE FUCKING COUCH, STEVE! The literal _fucking_ couch. I'm going to the lounge on the next floor to wait for you. I will come back with a torch and a pitchfork if you're not up there in ten minutes and chase you back to the goddamn penthouse. Everything is... Everyone is miserable and you two are running around humping like bunnies! Just go. Come. Cum and go. Whatever." 

As soon as Clint's footsteps fade, the mechanic folds Buck in half, burying his face against the bigger man's neck, and pumps him into the noisy cushions until they both finish hard at the same time, passing out again. They come to a few minutes later in a sticky heap. Steve realizes his only-human cock is protesting at the idea of even _thinking_ about getting hard again

**Aww, come on! We've got a mouth and fingers! Don't tap out! It's going to be a snore fest of people's fee fees up there.**

and both he and Buck's feelings through the bond mirror their concern about the others after Clint's little freak out. The blonde cleans them up with some towels from a nearby room, puts their clothes back on and let's the Soldier carry him piggyback up the stairs.


	102. Nobody puts baby in a corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang try to bond with their newer members.

Steve and Buck are passed by a half dozen rather unhappy looking freed men on the stairs going down as they go up. They find Paul in the next floor's lounge with Clint.

"Fuck those guys," the archer is saying. "If they give you anymore trouble, I'll kick their asses." He bends to yank an arrow from the floor, inspects the head and returns it to his quiver. 

"Very chivalrous of you, but _blame the victim_ is a tale as old as time," Paul says lightly; it's obvious he's either very good at not letting things get to him or excellent at not showing that they do. 

"They called him Crossbones' _suck bitch_ and said a bunch of other stuff, like he chose to have that fucking monster hurt him, like he got special treatment or something," the archer says to the couple. "I shot an arrow a millimeter from one of their feet and they scurried off." 

The dark haired man smiles wryly and shakes his head. "A few of them think I was sleeping in silk sheets and eating caviar, courtesy of _dating_ the boss man. It's nothing. They're all talk." 

"They had you cornered up here," Clint says darkly. 

It suddenly makes sense to Steve why Paul was sitting alone on the big couch when every other seat in the lounge was taken and people were even on the floor - he's been socially ostracized. He's the "house boy" to them now, someone they think was lifted out of doing real work by betraying his principles and spreading his legs willingly for their captor - a traitor. They have no idea. 

"Well, I'm giving you honorary membership to the gang," Steve says, trying to keep his voice light. "So you are gonna stay upstairs with us." He beckons for Paul to follow from his spot on Buck's back as the big man heads for the stairwell.

"So, Muscles, do I get a carry?" Paul grins at Clint, who chuckles, puts his bow across his back with the quiver and scoops the slender man up bridal style. 

The look Jasper gives when the archer - barely breaking a sweat - walks in carrying their new friend isn't lost on Steve. The bespectacled man quickly turns back to his notebook on the kitchen island, readjusts awkwardly on his stool, and returns to writing. Buck sits Steve on the sofa and Clint plops Paul next to him. The two smaller men clap and their packmules smile. The archer bows a few times comically, then drops next to Steve on the cushions and slings an arm around him, giving him a playful shake. The blonde leans against him immediately, hugging him tight. The Soldier suddenly looks upset, but before Clint can extricate himself or apologize (not interested in getting choked in a decidedly unsexy way), Buck speaks.

"Luis is very cold." 

The Soldier looks around nervously, sees Red and deduces the green-eyed man's location since his bodyguard is never far. He strides over to the walk in wine cooler and heads inside. As the tinted glass door swings open they can clearly see Luis is sitting on the ground inside. He's in sweats and a hoodie, but not even wearing socks, idly rubbing at his feet as he stares at the Valkyrie's plastic wrapped shape in front of him. Steve grits his teeth and furrows his brows, glaring at the now-closed walk in. 

"Hey, be cool with Luis, please. For me, baby brother," the archer asks soft next to his ear, both big arms now looped around his friend's skinny shoulders. "He's done a lot, risked a lot, for all of us. He's not a threat to what you two have and if you'd think with your head instead of your weiner, I'm sure you know that." 

"I'm not the one thinking with my dick," Steve grinds out.

Clint sighs hard through his nose. The blonde can tell the archer had been pulled in enough directions already lately; he pushes the bullheaded voice's angry, jealous chatter to the back of his mind, because he knows - feels in Buck and even _through him_ into Luis if he tries - that Clint is right. He repeats the words to himself - _he's not a threat_ \- until it feels more believable and Bullhead is as quiet as he's been for a while. Steve notices his friend feels tense against him and when he looks up, Clint is the one staring hard at the cooler.

"I'm sorry, big brother," the blonde says softly. "Now I...I can _feel_ the bond between them. It's just...hard. He's a good guy. I know you and Win really like him. I know he helped you rescue me. I'll try harder." 

The archer gives the mechanic a little squeeze, but he's still distracted - Clint can just make out Luis' shape through the tinted glass now that he knows to look for it. The Valkyrie had ridden to the rescue for Luis at the town when Phil betrayed them, socked Hill in the face after knowing she hit him, went nuts trying to get to him when the glass barrier came down in the facility. Luis was chummy and, for lack of a better word, nurturing with her like he was with Buck (though she seemed to need a lot less coddling than the big guy). It's obvious looking back they were close.

Another wave of guilt washes over Clint. He's always messing up lately - Stevie hurt, Nat cornered, Greta and that poor kid dead. He's totally fucked things with Luis. The younger man can put on a good front and bark loud when he's tested. God knows he hurled some pretty humourous insults at them when they'd met. While Nat wouldn't accept emotional support anyway (would despise it even) and Win is tough as nails (all the way to a little gooey center she only shows on her terms; she wouldn't begrudge attempts to comfort her, but she wouldn't actively wish for them either he thinks), Luis is a marshmallow, sweet and soft and easily burnt.

_Hey, I'm Clint. I fucked your girlfriend in front of you with barely a conversation after your close friend was murdered and I didn't even acknowledge your loss. Then I gave you what was probably the worst blow job you've ever had - but of course it was fine in the moment because by then you were probably desparate to get off after Nat - and then I was weird to you and ignored you the whole next day. So you can go back to thinking I'm just using you to turn on my wife. Yep, I'm the fucking idiot you risked your life for. A real sensitive, thoughtful guy._

"Can you hear what they're saying?" he asks Steve, trying not to sound as pathetic as he feels. "With your weird _bond thing_. I saw you two earlier all..." 

He puts a hand over Steve's face, the way he'd seen the couple doing to each other.

"You were spying on us!" the blonde accuses good-naturedly, before licking his hand and making him grimace.

The others had told him about Crossbones using the gesture to absorb things from people he fed - he realized from Steve and Buck's overheard conversation they were _giving_ with it instead of taking. That had warmed him through in an indescribable way, to know they could have that, but also made him wish it were so easy between him and the others.

"Yeah, I figured out what you were doing after like a half hour of watching and listening to you idiots. You showed him the sexy nightie incident! You owe me. So start snitching."

"It doesn't work like that," Steve says, only half telling the truth, because it probably could if he really pushed. "I can only...feel what Buck feels. I can't listen in." 

He fails to tell the archer he can sense Luis through Buck too - it touches him how sad and lonely and almost hopeless the young man feels, despite the bullheaded voice's muted protests against empathy. Clint gets that _smoke is about to come out of my ears_ look of concentration then walks over to stand opposite Red on the other side of the cooler door, where the people inside can't see him. He whispers something to the big Soldier, who nods. It's very clear Red - using his excellent hearing - is telling the archer quietly what Buck and Luis are saying, even though the others can't make out his words. Clint was on the short list of people the ginger was told to obey; spying on his handler's private conversations was probably not what Luis had in mind. 

Paul chuckles. "Your band has turned into a bunch of angsty solo projects. You've got Redheaded Hellcat's debut noise album, I Drink Myself to Sleep," he gestures to Nat, open-mouthed snoring on the chaise with several empty wine bottles next to her on the side table. "Welly's sophomore effort, One Brown Eye." The bespectacled man scowls, but doesn't look up from his scribbling. Steve laughs at the obvious double entendre. "And finally The Nosey Archer, with his emo EP - Insecurity and Other Things You Can't Kill with Arrows. Where's the tiny one with my haircut? I bet she's more fun than these people." 

"Win!" Steve screams, jarring Natasha awake so hard she falls to the floor and sending Clint scurrying away from the cooler as the others hurry out to see what's going on. 

The welder emerges a minute later, looking scared then irritated. Win practically throws herself next to Steve on the sofa, slaps him hard upside the head. "I thought you were in trouble!" she scolds then puts her head on his shoulder. "Again. Idiot," she adds in Cantonese. 

"Hey," he says with thinly veiled concern, putting an arm around her. "You okay?" 

She hands him the stack of pictures, one of Greta and Win on top. It takes everything in him not to let his grief surge up and make him bawl - he doesn't want that to flow into Buck. Steve lets out a long breath and goes through the stack, grinning at their shenanigans.

"Can I just say, I adore you," Paul offers to Win. "I love this whole soft butch thing you have going on. And those features! Can I do your face?" 

"That's what she said," Nat quips, stretching - she eyes Clint and Luis, who are decidedly not laughing; the latter's lips look a little blue and she's surprised when she bothers to care why. 

"Your makeup, honey. Can I do your makeup? There's a bunch in the master bath. Good shit." Paul raises his eyebrows like he's offered Win cocaine.

"Only if Clint will let you do his," the welder responds, smiling mischievously.

"Oooh just like sp -" Steve starts. 

"Don't say it!" the archer warns.

"Spa night!" Win, Nat and the mechanic yell in unison. 

"Should I ask?" Paul questions. 

"We planned a spa night. Nat would do manicures, Win did eyebrows, I drew people's pictures - which, whatever, not exactly on point but it relaxes people - and Clint was supposed to give massages, which he's surprisingly good at," the blonde says, grinning.

"But he got shitty drunk really fast and passed out," Nat continues, sitting on the couch arm next to Win.

"So we gave him clown makeup and drew penises and vaginas on him in hidden places with waterproof eyeliner. There were three dicks on the back of his neck for a week he did not know were there," the welder finishes, chuckling. "We never did get those massages." She points a finger at Clint. 

"We could do spa night now! I can do everyone's faces. There's tweezers galore and enough bath oil to fill a kiddie pool and wrestle, so Muscles could give us all rubdowns." Paul winks at Clint, then looks to Nat. "There's manicure stuff and loads of polish in the bathroom cupboard. And there's plenty of paper and pencils, blondey. But draw me ten years younger with a thinner nose."

"Let's do it!" Steve says excitedly, noting how much everyone needs a happy distraction. Most of the others give various words or motions of agreement, but Luis looks, for lack of a better word, _wounded_ as he loiters near the kitchen area. Buck is already sitting on the floor in front of his boyfriend, and the mechanic leans forward to wrap his wiry arms around the Soldier's shoulders and ground himself in the warm security of their bond. "I could use a haircut," Steve tentatively says to the green-eyed man. "Thanks for...fixing my beard, when I was out. I'm sure some other people could use a trim or a shave, if that's cool."

Luis gives him a little smile and nods, realizing the blonde is trying hard to be nice, to include him. 

"What should I do?" the Soldier asks, leaning his head back on Steve's lap to look up at him and offer a big smile. 

"You could help everybody relax," Steve says softly to Buck, lightly tapping the front of one long, pointy tooth. "Not like _last time_. Just...a little." 

"I'm down!" Nat says quickly, raising her hand. 

She comes over and kneels down next to Buck, offers the Soldier her wrist. Paul watches in a combination of fascination and horror as the big man gently grips her alabaster arm and punches the tip of one canine into it. 

"That's nice, Buck," she whispers after a few seconds while he softly sucks - as she closes her eyes she noticably softens, brows going up and shoulders dropping down. 

"What is he...?" the dark haired man starts to query, but trails off, looking a bit uncomfortable. 

"Uhhh, sorry. I hope it's not...scary. After...you know," Steve says a bit guiltily. "The best way to explain it is he can put his pulse in you when he drinks from you, but it's not like what _he did_ to us. It feels...nice. The less serious the wound, and the less he....pushes, the less you feel it. Like this, it just feels like a..." He trails off, unsure how to explain.

"Tingle," Luis offers, moving closer. "Imagine smoking a small amount of good weed and listening to an asmr video." 

Paul looks unconvinced as Buck pulls off and Nat, now healed, pats his gray arm in thanks. She heads to the master bath. 

"Is it alright?" the Soldier questions Steve, eyeing Luis after - the young man nervously looks at the blonde and for a second they both push to feel each other out using their mutual bonded as a conduit. 

After a long moment, the mechanic nods and Luis holds out his arm. Buck tries to be quiet, to suppress the feed-pleasure from slipping over the bond to Steve; Luis tastes _so good_ and it makes him _want._ All he had thought about was that Luis was suffering and he could help stop it, not of their shared enjoyment, but now it takes a great deal of effort to resist leaving his teeth in or pushing his pulse into him harder. He's pleasantly surprised how responsive his body is to him still - how much he wants to hear Luis' drugged little sounds and have him close. His bond seems unaltered with his friend, flaring bright with them connected like this (though not nearly as intense as with the little mechanic) even after everything that has happened with Steve. 

For his part, the green-eyed man holds back from touching Buck, doesn't stroke his hair or shoulder reassuringly as he would normally do, or make any noises. If he lets himself, he can feel the light hum of Steve's tension that Buck is picking up. He can also feel the blonde trying to wrestle it down, trying to send reassuring vibes to Buck. It's something, at least. 

"It's totally safe, I promise," the green-eyed man continues to Paul. "He's done it to me a lot. It doesn't screw with your head or anything at this level." 

Luis heads to get his supplies out of his bag in the master after the Soldier releases him. The redhead passes him on her way back to the living room and abruptly grabs his arm.

"I'm sorry. About Val," she offers quickly, looking him dead in the eyes. "I know Win is too. We've become...maybe desensitized to people we're not close to dying, or distracted with our own loss, but neither is an excuse." 

He nods, surprised, but says nothing. 

"And it only hurts for a second. Then it's nice," they hear Clint reassure Paul from the other room. "Bucky, can I get a bigger hit off the old fang bong? I'm having a shit week." 

Laughter drifts in from the others.

"He's trying to escape _himself_, not you," Nat adds to Luis, clearly meaning the archer; she releases him and walks back to the living room.

"Your massage services cannot be provided if you are intoxicated," the Soldier chastises Clint gently. "Steve's feet are very sore." 

The archer sulks for all of ten seconds, then he's humming softly and closing his eyes at the sensation Buck is giving him. 

"It's okay if you don't want to," he reassures Paul once the bigger man is done. 

"I will not be offended," the Soldier adds.

"I will if Welly will first," the dark haired man responds, eyeing Jasper, who finally looks up, brows furrowed. 

Several of the others urge the ex-ops on and he begrudgingly sighs and walks over as Luis returns.

"Not too hard. I don't want to wake up next to Clint," Sitwell deadpans - to his surprise, most of them laugh and Win pulls Luis onto her narrow lap, goosing him since the comment was at his expense. 

"You should be so lucky," the archer scoffs. "God knows if anyone here needs to get laid, it's you, but you'd be at the _bottom_ of my list. Pun for once not intended." 

Jasper glowers, starts to draw his arm back. Paul takes a cue from the welder - he grabs Jasper suddenly, turns and pulls the bespectacled man to sit on his bony knees, then slides him back a bit. 

"I'll have you know, nerdy guys are very sexy," the dark haired man says playfully to Clint, who rolls his eyes. 

Paul gently grips Jasper's arm and holds it out towards Buck without resistance. The Soldier looks up at Sitwell cautiously until the bespectacled man nods. He appears genuinely shocked at the sensation after the bite pain fades, mouth dropping open and eye going wide as the dark haired man watches his profile. Jasper almost looks like a different person as the tension drains from his limbs and the worry line disappears from his forehead. When Buck is done the bespectacled man raises on mildly unsteady feet and moves to the big, overstuffed chair nearby he'd favored on their last visit. 

"If you want me to stop, you only need to ask," Buck reassures Paul as he hesitantly holds out his wrist - Steve carefully takes the dark haired man's other hand and gives it a little squeeze. 

"Wow," Paul says after. "That was... wow. Thank you, Buck." 

Steve thinks he looks like he wants to cry, but in a wedding way, not a funeral way. There's visibly a weight lifted from their new friend.

"You are very welcome," the big man responds, glowing, happy as always to help someone else. 

For a moment they all sit in comfortable silence. Steve knows it isn't possible with such a small exchange of pulse and blood, but for a minute he feels a bond stretch between all of them, slender threads of silver like a spiderweb, delicate but strong. It is the first time in nearly a decade, other than with Buck when they're alone in each other's arms, that he's felt like he is right where he is supposed to be.


	103. Hair did, nails did, everything did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang pursue amusements and reconciliations.

They rotate around performing their prescribed tasks for the others, taking turns picking out music to play - there are hundreds of tracks downloaded into the elaborate, surround sound stereo - and it isn't long before the atmosphere is cheerful. Jasper mixed cocktails and Nat begrudgingly admitted he made her the best dirty martini she'd ever had. He'd had to pose as a bartender for nearly a month before he was able to murder a Bosnian mob boss at a hangout he frequented (heavily-guarded, bulletproof-glass-using asshole was a real timesuck). He keeps that tidbit to himself as Paul compliments the Pimm's cup he'd made and muses where his skills came from. 

Paul had dolled up Steve in a red gradient shadow look that makes his blue eyes pop, just accenting his deep pink lips with clear gloss and pronounced apples of his cheeks with a dusty mauve blush. He's sloppy with several Long Island ice teas, attempting to draw Buck, sketches of the others already littering the counter and the floor around the stool he's sitting on. The big man is in thick, ancient Egyptian influenced turquoise and silver liner with a purpley highlighter over his cheekbones that looks almost natural on his pale gray skin. He's giggling right along with the mechanic, riding the smaller man's buzz through their bond and making stupid faces instead of keeping his pose. 

Nat, in a smoky plum eye, wine gloss and soft tawny blush, had done Steve's nails a matte mauve and coated Buck's in black with silver glitter (he liked shinies - who knew?). Paul's are her fanciest - a glossy lemon yellow with a bright blue squiggle up one side, matching the colors of his cut crease. The welder - wearing a hot pink stripe across her face from one temple to the other, covering both eyes like a character from an 80s cyberpunk movie but accented with razor sharp wing liner, black lipstick and deep cheekbone contouring - picked a gunmetal shade for all but the nails on her ringfingers, which match the pink makeup. She and her husband had worked at a salon that put them on the brow bar when they arrived in the US, and she made quick work of trimming and shaping everyone's who would let her - Nat raises one freshly arched brow and tries cheesy pick up lines on her in Cantonese, which don't translate for shit and get the welder laughing. 

Clint is leaning in the doorway to one of the spare bedrooms, uncharacteristically silent in his shimmery olive lids, matching polish (he and Nat had easily resumed their usual flirty/mocking banter quickly enough while she worked on his disgusting, raggedy nails) and deep burnt sienna matte pout. He'd set up a relaxing little massage parlor in the room - complete with a bunch of lit candles, the overhead lights turned off, and a pile of thick comforters on the floor. First he'd rubbed Steve's feet and legs while the blonde cuddled with Buck, both insisting they couldn't leave the couch yet, and in return they'd answered his litany of questions about their new bond. The rest of them had gotten suspiciously quiet, obviously listening in. Then the archer massaged Win's hands as she made fun of his sausage fingers (and added several Clint-like lewd comments about their other uses while he and Nat laughed and Jasper rolled his eyes).

Nat and Paul actually went in the candlelit room after Clint whined about his setup going to waste. The bespectacled man had heard pleased groaning both times - he marveled at how effecting the latter's was and how not arousing he found the former's. He can acknowledge the assassin is objectively attractive, but subjectively he feels nothing towards her (like the vast majority of people he encounters), not even a hint of sexual interest.

It's all too easy on the other hand to picture Paul's face as he makes those sounds. Jasper purposely distances himself from the room to avoid them. When Clint eventually approaches him, the ex-ops simply glares until he's just grabbed by the biceps, led into the room and forced to sit on the edge of the bed by the archer. Clint works over the bald man's shoulder Crossbones had torn lose (and one of the Soldiers mostly healed) and he has to admit, if only internally, the bigger man's ministrations feel really good.

"Look, I know we don't like each other," Clint offers once Sitwell relaxes a bit in his grasp. "And that's maybe not going to change. But you helped save Stevie. So just this once, I'm going to help you. Paul is pretty cool and I have no idea why, but... You know he's into you right? And you're blowing it today being...you. Weird and standoffish. Maybe you should stop and go back to...whatever you did before that got him to like you." 

"Maybe you should take your own..._man advice_. I noticed Luis isn't speaking to you and you keep staring at him like -" 

"**Don't say like a dog.**" Clint digs his thumb in a bit too hard. 

"If the collar fits," the bald man grits out. "I shouldn't say things like that to you. You're probably into that sort of thing." 

"That was almost a joke, Wel-" He cuts himself off. "_Jasper._ If you want to tell me how you disapprove of things like BDSM, polyamory and sexual fluidity, now's your one chance. Get it all out."

"I'm the last person who should make judgment calls in the arenas of sex and romance. You have more brain cells than I've had relationships and that's saying something." He smirks, for once more playful than smug.

"_Dick._ Seriously. Talk to Paul. It's going to be a long road back. Anything can happen." 

"I will if you talk to Luis." 

"Deal." Clint holds out his hand and they shake. 

"I still think you're an idiot," Jasper quips.

"I still think you're a creepy douche nozzle," Clint smiles back.

The dark haired man - drink now empty - has done everyone else's makeup besides Sitwell's (except Luis, who insists he's allergic to almost all personal care products). Jasper looks around to find everyone else sufficiently moistened - he shoves the makeup kit into Paul's arms and heads towards the bedroom they shared the previous night, motioning for him to follow. 

"Better light in the bathroom," he offers. 

The bespectacled man sits on the closed toilet turned towards the vanity overheads. Paul gives him a faint smile and starts working in silence on a deep green blended look with a gold lid on his remaining eye. After Jasper sighs for the twentieth time, the smaller man finally gives in to this obvious ploy to get him to talk.

"So you're a little salty with me," Paul offers, tone not terribly apologetic, as he cups the bespectacled man's jaw to hold him in place. "I guess I should have considered a little sooner if you did things like last night on a regular basis. I'm guessing the answer is no."

Jasper frowns, goes from looking nervous to offended. 

"Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the worst sex I've had by far," Paul continues. 

"Gee, thanks," Sitwell offers in a rare burst of sarcasm.

"You've got a decent dong. I mean, I'm not a size queen, so it met all the basic requirements. And you didn't make a weird O face or cum nearly as fast as I thought you would," the smaller man muses.

"Okay, Paul, okay! Enough. Why did you... with me in the first place?" Jasper interjects in a serious tone. 

"I'd love to say you took advantage of me in my lonely and horny state." Paul grins and splays a hand across his chest. "But that would be utter crap. And you're pretty much just as hard up. Worse even maybe."

Jasper scowls as the smaller man's smirk widens.

"Look, it was spur of the moment. I wasn't thinking about _after_. I'm sorry I didn't...make you breakfast or whatever you thought would happen this morning." 

"I don't need...coddling. Or pity. I don't need it now and I didn't need it last night." 

"Wow." Paul suddenly sounds more earnest, even a bit sad, under his still-playful veneer. "Welly, how do you have _such an ego_ and yet such a low opinion of yourself? I have never and will never _pity-fuck_ anyone. I think you're cute. And smart. Funny even, though that's probably unintentional most of the time. And I love the whole awkward geek thing you have going on -" 

Jasper's face feels like it will cave in if he pulls it to its center any tighter.

"- juxtaposed with you somehow being this total badass. Which, we're gonna talk about that eventually, Mr. Sharp Shooter. You take care of your body and you're somehow always clean, during a fucking apocalypse, and not a selfish asshat or a perv who was pushy or tried to get me to do any weird shit. Those are all the reasons I got on you. Not because I felt sorry for you." 

"I was convenient and not detestable," the bespectacled man responds flatly. "Got it."

"Oh come on! Like you had the most noble, romantic intentions with me. Can you really say you didn't let me _jump your bones_ because I'm a knock off version of your crush?" 

"That's not...No! You don't even look like him without the hair." 

"Pleeease." Paul roles his eyes. "We could be related."

"Okay, so I have a type. Both of the women I dated - before I knew Steve, thank you - had a similar build and blue eyes and -" 

"I'm not _a type_, Welly. I'm me." 

"I didn't mean it like - "

"I know, I know." Paul sighs. "If this were fifteen years ago, I'd be a total lesbian and u-haul with you and be the manic pixie dream boy who shakes up your painfully ordered, boring life with my adorable hijinx. But it isn't and I can't and I won't." He puts the brush down and moves to sit on the edge of the tub, crossing his arms like he's cold. 

"I'll absolutely admit I had a thing for Steve. Yes, I care about him. Yes, I probably always will. But even I can see it's not reciprocated, not beyond some kind of...trauma camaraderie, and he's happy with someone else. I'm deluded and autistic, but not an idiot. Ahhh...I didn't mean to tell you I have -" 

"I already guessed. You stim when you're nervous." Paul nods towards Jasper's right hand, repetitively squeezing his left elbow. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about. My cousin has..._had_...autism. She would pinch herself sometimes." 

"I used to do that. I was in behavioral therapy since I was little. Speech for awhile, special classes or had an aid til middle school. I didn't want to be...not-straight too. It's not queerphobia like everyone thinks. It just felt like...one more complication. One step farther from the status quo. Especially when I couldn't put a _label_ to what I am. That's why I let things get twisted with Steve."

"I can get that. Labels are helpful but ultimately restrictive, especially when we're religiously held to them."

"I've come to terms with being...whatever I am...and I can say to you directly right now that _I like you._ I'm attracted to you. I liked what happened between us. That... almost never happens for me, regardless of gender or circumstance. And I know that doesn't mean you owe me back feeling the same about me, because I lucked out and met someone I actually want to be with. But...I think you do feel those things. I think that's why you didn't stay in the bed with me. Why you left before I woke up. Attraction can be... inconvenient, scary, in the best of circumstances, and this isn't those." Jasper hesitates before he continues. "I also understand that _he_ hurt you," he adds softly, multiple underlying meanings clear in his tone. 

Paul runs a boney hand over his buzzzcut. When he continues, every hint of his usual humorous, saucy attitude is gone from his voice. It's the most _real_ Jasper has heard him.

"He kept me strapped to a bed for months, Welly. He would...come in and get on top of me and grind against me like an animal until he...I can't even think about sleeping in one, regardless of _who_ is in it." 

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," Jasper blurts out, wipes his hand over his mouth like he wants to vomit. "I would never...I would never pressure you to do anything you didn't want to. Not ever. I'd never touch you without permission." 

"I know that, Welly. A scumbag's first thought isn't to give the half-naked guy the sweater off his own back. That's why I felt safe to... be with you. But it's not just about sex. I need to...I don't know...mourn isn't the right word. I've done and done and done that. Adjust? I can't... Look you _rescued me_. But I can't have a relationship built on you being my _single and available_ hero and me being a grateful, enamored victim."

"I don't think of us that way," the bald man counters softly.

"Yeah, but I might. I need...time. To get to know you. To get to know myself. Whoever I am now after everything. Look, I'm not telling you there can't ever be anything between us, but I can't just jump into something. I realized this morning it's not fair to myself or to you to pretend like I know what I want. I do like you, but I couldn't have you wake up thinking we were _a thing_ only to have to tell you we're not. It was...cowardly to run off and hide."

"You are definitely not a coward," Jasper offers, leaning forward. "You went up against that horrible monster to protect a total stranger." 

"Yeah, I was pretty hardcore, huh? You missed the part where I threw the empty gun at him." Paul smirks. "What about this? While we're here, you still sleep in the bed and I can stay on the floor, and we can talk away from our nosey ass housemates. Just...let me initiate touching, okay?" He pauses and the bespectacled man nods. "If you don't bore me to death, I can decide if it goes farther from there once I settle in back at your town. And if eventually I realize it won't, you'll be the first to know." 

"I'll still have made a friend at least. I'm learning how important that is lately." 

The dark haired man smiles. After, he carefully draws a matching eye on the bandage over Jasper's eyesocket while they chat. Just like sex, the _getting to know you_ conversation is awkward at first but they fall into a comfortable rhythm. They don't bother to go back out to the living room once Paul is done with his artwork, chatting into the wee hours from their respective beds until they fall asleep in their clothes and makeup.


	104. Bruises on both my knees for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint puts his big boy pants on then takes them off.
> 
> ***Uhhh this chapter is really long and I have no regrets. Lol***

Luis had already shaved Sitwell's head and stubble, cleaned up Win's brushcut, gave Buck a trim, plus buzzed the sides and back of Steve's head low, fading them up in to a textured thatch on the top he'd cut much shorter than it was before. Nat had even requested a blunt bob he'd done a solid job on. Now he's trimming Red's - even though the Soldier's face is blank as he sits on a sheet and Luis stands in front of him making ginger locks flutter down, the smaller man swears something in his copper eyes is pleased at the attention. Someday, he reasons, Red will be totally sentient and he'll remember the kindness they bestowed on him when he wasn't.

Eventually the green-eyed man finishes sweeping up every last stray hair and is out of excuses not to get the massage the others have been pushing him towards all night. With a soft sigh he relents and goes in the candlelit room with Clint after Buck insists that Luis is tight and sore almost everywhere. The archer says nothing, just looks at him with an unreadable expression, as the green-eyed man slowly trudges into the room and settles onto the comforter.

"You're not gonna feel a thing through that thick hoodie," Clint points out quietly.

After a minute's hesitation, Luis takes it off, even though he has nothing on beneath. It never fails that getting touched like this by a romantic partner makes him horny, but he's upset enough right now he thinks the effect will be nullified. It takes mere minutes before he realizes he's miscalculated his penis' ability to ignore his emotional state. Clint straddling his thighs with his own muscular ones and working his thick fingers into the knots along Luis' spine still begins getting him worked up. He can't help a little sound coming out, which only makes Clint - the bastard - massage that spot even more deeply. Luis hasn't been _under him_ before and it's surprisingly good; he's warm, solid and just the right amount of heavy - for a second he can't help but picture the archer shifting them enough to...

He focuses his thoughts on Winter to distract himself, trying to work out how things have changed between them. It was like a switch had flipped in the bigger man that opened him up more completely to his bond with Luis after what happened with Steve. The brunette seems to be actively noticing things, seeking out things even, through their link instead of passively feeling them like before in a vague, distant sort of way that was easy to misread or ignore. Maybe Winter had subconsciously shut Luis out in the past or maybe the way he operated was just different now - maybe it wasn't a choice for the Soldier to be more tuned in. Either way it was reassuring that connection was strengthened and not destroyed, that he wouldn't just be forgotten or tossed aside, even though he could tell the turn of events made Steve bristle. 

On the troublesome side, the Soldier _knows him_ even more now. He can't brush off Winter's concerns the way he could when he was just picking up on body language and a faint sense of how the younger man felt. The brunette had verbally urged things out of Luis in the cooler that he would never say to the others because Winter had sensed immediately when the younger man was holding back or being dishonest. Luis had said things he refuses to let himself say now to the archer, even though they're dangerously close to tumbling out. He can just lay here in silence, right? He's not Clint, who can almost never shut his mouth, until of course you wanted him around - then poof.

"I...may have, sort of, used Red to spy on you and Buck. In the walk in," Clint says as if on cue.

_Well, fuck._

"I seem to be at the top of your shit list," the archer continues, his tone hesitant, nervous, maybe even sad. 

Luis tries to focus on _why_ his ire had narrowed mostly to Clint instead of how the archer's big hands are so stimulating on his mid back. He tries to stuff down his body's reaction as a hot tingle spreads down his spine and straight into his dick. He'd been mad at all of them at first, but over the day softened towards the women, realizing he shouldn't have expected much from them. Dealing with emotions wasn't remotely Nat's strong suit - it had been a struggle for her to comfort her own husband - and they weren't exactly an item. Plus, she'd tried connecting with him in the master bedroom earlier, which was huge from her. Win had every right to be mired in grief after losing her surrogate mom - he couldn't begrudge her tending to her pain alone even though he wished she'd let him be there for her like a real couple. She'd closed herself off from the redhead too, so he can't take it personally. 

Clint though...he was very much in touch with his emotions (some would say too much) and never had a problem talking (everyone would say too much). Plus, he wasn't that close with Greta. Certainly loss hit everyone differently, but the woman's final words to him were more about his duty than their friendship. The archer really knew and understood Nat and Win, owed them to at least try to be there for them, but he'd... 

"You ran off," Luis says simply from where his head is turned to the side and resting on his crossed arms; Clint says nothing and that pisses him off worse than any excuse, even more so because the bigger man's ministrations have him hard and wanting to dry hump the comforter like a teenager, which is totally irritating for how shitty he feels. Fuck, it's maddening how easily Clint turns him on. That makes him want to lay into the other man harder as well, like he's intentionally distracting him from his anger (even though he isn't). 

"You didn't fulfill your obligation as a husband to Nat or a friend to Win. You didn't even attempt to keep track of them, to make sure they were alright. You left me to deal with it, just like when mi padre left mi madre and I had a baby sister and sick grandparents to look after while she worked. I wasn't in a position to take care of myself, let alone others, not then and not today. I'm sick of being the one who looks after everyone and gets nothing back."

Fuck, he hadn't meant to say that, but the gato was out of the bulsa. 

"I tried with the girls, anyway. I knocked on the closet and Win wouldn't unlock the door and Nat just glared at me like she'd rip my heart out if I dared ask how she was doing. But you know them a lot better than me. You were in a position to get them to open up, to help them. And you ran. The fuck. Away." 

"That's what I do," Clint says hoarsely. "I told you before, I'm a terrible person. I'm garbage." 

Luis wriggles under him until the archer gets the picture and lifts up enough that the smaller man can role over to face him. "I hate that. I hate when you shit on yourself." 

"Only you're allowed to do that?" the older man tries to snark, but it's half-hearted and he doesn't look at Luis. 

"I was stating the facts about your _behavior_, which is different than your worth. If you don't like how your actions reflect on you, maybe you should try to figure out how to be better, instead of falling back on the bullshit excuse you inherently can do no right." 

"The girls are tough. They don't need me."

It doesn't feel like an excuse - if anything, Clint sounds disappointed, like he's already decided they're getting the short end of the stick in their relationships with him. And maybe he's right they didn't need support. They both already seem genuinely pretty at ease, like they're coping.

"Well I fucking _needed_ you," Luis grits out, without meaning to. And here he is, spread out and vulnerable again for Clint, like an idiot. "We had this...awesome, intense sexual experience with each other and I felt like you really _saw me_, but then you got all distant after and I fucking woke up alone. I woke up alone to spend the day thinking about my friend cut in half laying next to some rich fuck's Merlot collection, and wondering if I'm going to wake up alone every time things are rough. I just... expected more from you. I thought you cared about me."

Clint stares at his hands resting on his own thighs, quiet. 

Luis sighs. "Lemme'up," he says sternly, disappointment written all over him as he bucks his hips - he realizes immediately that was a mistake as his temporarily forgotten erection pushes against Clint.

"What, are you getting off on reminding me what a useless failure I am?!" the older man blurts out, big hands gripping Luis' hips and pinning him down so they're not rubbing together.

"That's - I - no! That always happens when I get a back rub from someone I...I thought it wouldn't happen being I'm pissed at you, and I couldn't refuse letting you without making a big scene since they wouldn't shut up about it. But I guess it'll make it easier for you to go hide now that you gave me a hard on. Or do you need to blow me first before I get blown off?" Luis knows he's ranting, not making much sense, being immature, but fuck this is the most hurt he's felt since Val rode him then told him she felt nothing romantic for him, since Winter ditched him.

"I already know I'm useless, okay! That's where I was today, thinking about it over and over and over! About how I couldn't protect the people I care about! About how fucking stupid I am, always fucking up, always doing and saying the wrong thing! About how," Clint sucks in a sharp breath and his voice cracks when he speaks again, "about how you had to save me. How in danger that put you. How'd I'd fucking die inside if anything happened to you."

Luis' angry expression falters, brows going up, green eyes going a bit wider. Clint releases one of his hips and reaches the hand up to gently brush the smaller man's cheek, big calloused thumb skimming light over Luis' lips briefly before pulling back.

"I'm not going to say I'm starting to fall in love with you, because that would make me sound creepy and insane when I've barely known you a month. But I'm...starting to start to. I...I woke up feeling like I was no good to anyone. Like you'd all be better off without me. I never meant to - never _want to_ \- hurt you." Clint frowns, forehead creasing even more than usual. "I was an idiot not to realize how upset you were about Val, how much it sucked I was distant after we fooled around. And I don't want you to feel like holding everyone together is your job. I do care about you, and the girls, so much. I just... I don't understand what you or anyone else sees in me, what I offer in any of this, and that makes me feel like shit. That makes me want to hide my head in the sand like an ostrich. I mean, why would you even like me in the first place?" 

Clint hangs his head, looking exhausted. Luis fucking melts. He hates himself a bit, but he does it anyway. He puts a curled finger under the bigger man's chin and tilts it up enough the older man is looking at him again.

"I like you because you're almost always in a good mood and energetic. You make everything fun even if it's boring or tedious. You're brave. You're protective. Warm. Affectionate. Giving. So fucking hilarious. You're not some macho, emotionally closed-off manly man who needs to be in charge of everything. When you look at me, I feel like I'm special to you. I feel wanted. Is that...is that true?" 

"Yes," Clint breathes, eyes big. "Very much yes."

Luis gives him a little smile. "And you're so fucking sexy." He reaches his hands up to run over the bigger man's muscular arms and down around to his hips, then slides his finger tips under the hem of his thin t-shirt to rest them lightly on his defined abs. "What do you like about me?" he asks softly, olive branch fully extended just like that.

"Everything," the archer says without hesitation - Luis guffaws like it's a cop out or exaggeration, so Clint continues. "You're not a hardened fighter, but you've thrown yourself into the fight over and over for Buck, for me. That takes so much courage. You're... clever. Funny. So, so fucking smart. You don't hide your feelings. There's not all this...armor to get through. You're just nice and sweet and open. But you've got a little temper and a mouth on you, and that's hot. And God, you're good looking." There's a little flare of heat in his eyes at that last comment Luis' still half-erect cock twitches at - he's far less bothered this time. 

"Yeah? Tell me what you like about my body." Luis is aware how quickly this situation is making a one-eighty into flirting, but he feels an immense weight lifted off of him to hear Clint openly declare his feelings, to know Nat was right and the archer's problems were with himself and not Luis. Stripping his anger and hurt away leaves his affection and arousal.

"Mmm," Clint half groans, like just contemplating the subject turns him on. "Your skin is such a beautiful color and so soft, so smooth. I like that you're not very big, so you fit against me nice, but you're fit, defined." He runs his hands lightly up Luis' bare belly and chest. "You're so fucking pretty. Those gorgeous ringlets, those beautiful eyes, roundness to your cheeks." 

He brushes the smaller man's face with his fingertips.

"But then you've got a strong chin and cheekbones and that mohawk. God that fucking mohawk, like you weren't hot enough already. And your tattoos are awesome." His hands move to grip Luis' upper arms, run up to his shoulders. "You're like this nice mix of...feminine and masculine that I find so attractive. And I love how sensitive you are everywhere." Clint runs his hands down around to thumb over both of the green-eyed man's nipples, pulling a little gasp from him. "Plus you've got a nice cock and you know how to use it."

"Oh, is that all?" Luis smirks. 

Clint runs his eyes, slow and appreciative, over Luis' face and down his body to the bulge in his pants. "We could have a do over of last night. I could make you feel good, with my mouth. I wouldn't want anything in return. And we can snuggle after, talk, whatever you want," he offers softly as he rubs his thumbs over the hard nubs on the smaller man's chest in slow circles, making Luis moan quietly and close his eyes. "And I'll be there when you wake up. I promise."

Clint leans down, flicks the tip of his tongue on one nipple and then the other, mouths down his belly to his waistband. Luis abruptly sits up, eases his legs from beneath Clint and under himself so they're both on their knees looking at each other. He leans forward curling a hand in the archer's hair, watches the older man's body react in anticipation of a kiss, but he doesn't give it. He tugs him forward instead. Clint whimpers. As nice as laying there and letting the bigger man take him apart slow and gentle would be, he has other plans. Luis grabs the waistband of Clint's pants and yanks them unceremoniously to his knees.

"You can make it up to me, but I also think you deserve a reward for being so honest." He gives Clint a few quick strokes, then pulls his hand away. "I already knew you were a kinky fucker and liked it kind of rough," the younger man breathes against the archer's ear. "But I learned a few more things last night about you I wanna try for myself. Seems you like your hair pulled and getting bossed around." 

The archer whimpers again, higher, as he nods. His hands reach to touch Luis. 

"Ah, ah, ah. Not until I say you can, papi. Me, or yourself." Luis stands, still clutching Clint's short locks. "Sit your ass on your calves," he orders and the bigger man complies. He releases his hair. "Take your shirt off." The bigger man removes it, tosses it aside, leaving him in just the sweats yanked down to reveal his hard cock and full balls. Luis grabs his hair again, pulls a bit. "Lean forward," he says soft but firm. "There that's enough." He stops the bigger man with the grip on his tresses, uses it to tilt his head back. "Pull my pants down and then put your hands on my hips," he orders and Clint quickly obeys. "They're not allowed to move from there til I say so. One squeeze is yes. Two squeezes is no. Three is stop. Do you understand?" 

Clint opens his mouth a bit wider, but then shuts it and squeezes Luis' hips once.

"That's good, papi. Now, I also realized last night that you like your mouth fucked. You got a problem with me doing that now?" 

Two squeezes. 

"And if you want me to stop, what do you do?" 

Three squeezes. 

"Bueno, papi. Mirame. Show me all the colors in those gorgeous eyes." 

They're wide when they lock onto Luis', filled with surprise and heat as Clint opens his mouth, licks his lips generously and leaves them parted wide, offering. The smaller man's composure falters for a second at how wanting the bigger man looks, but then he's moving forward, guiding his cock to rub over the archer's lips, spreading a thin runner of pre-cum there before pushing slowly in. The way Clint is tilted, the deep curve of his neck, would allow Luis to slide himself in to the base if he wants, but he's measured and slow, watching for signs it's too much. He remembers how easily Clint had swallowed him down before and so far there's no sign this position is any more difficult. 

"Can you take more of my cock?" 

A quick hard squeeze. He slides in farther. 

"Not much of a gag reflex, huh?" 

Two squeezes and the tip of Clint's tongue working along the base of his cock. 

"Mmm," Luis growls low. "Can you take the whole thing?"

He feels a single squeeze so he pushes in as deep as he can go into Clint's throat. 

"Damn, papi. I'm gonna want this every fucking day. Your lips feel and look so good around my cock." Clint groans like he's the one getting sucked off as Luis gently fucks his mouth. "I couldn't believe what a lucky bastard I was when you offered this last night," the younger man says hot and low as he pulls his hips back slowly, then moves them forward, the hand fisted in the archer's locks at his crown holding Clint perfectly still. "Especially when I saw you _like_ doing this so much. You may have noticed, papi, but I only enjoy things if the other person does too. Don't ever want anyone to do anything they don't like. That turns me off immediately. And I'll know. If you fake it. You should always be honest with me. You understand?"

One squeeze to Luis' hips as he pushes back in to the point his balls press to Clint's chin. He draws out and slides back in slow and even a few more times, their eyes locked on each other, before he starts to speed up. 

"Damn, papi. That's good. You're being so good. And, fuck, look at how sexy you are on your knees for me, those big muscly shoulders and back all on display. God, you look and feel so amazing." Clint groans around him again and Luis clutches the back of his head with his other hand at the base of his skull, pulls the archer even farther forward and tilts his head back more, starts to thrust into his mouth with increased speed and force. The bigger man's throat vibrates around his cock. "You love my dick in your mouth don't you?"

One squeeze, hard and lingering. 

"It's almost as hot and tight as fucking your ass. You like me fucking you? You like cumming from my dick inside you?" 

An even harder single squeeze to his hips and a deeper groan.

"You like me using your mouth? Fucking your throat? Rubbing my cock all over your tongue?"

The archer squeezes once, hard, and starts running his tongue more vigorously back and forth quickly over the underside of Luis' length in response, swirling around under the head each time he pulls back.

"Fuck, papi. Fuck. That'll make me cum," Luis whimpers, gripping tighter, fucking his mouth and throat harder and deeper, all semblance of control crumbling as Clint's grip also tightens and urges him to move with more force. "Fuck, fuck, yes, just like that, just like that!" Luis groans as his hips roll fast, Clint swallowing his whole length effortlessly over and over as he moves his tongue again and again. 

Luis' sac, slick with escaped saliva, makes wet slapping sounds against Clint's face. The younger man stares down in awe as he thrusts in to the base, as he sees his length come out glistening and smeared with Clint's lipstick only to disappear again so fast, to see his balls push against the archer's chin. The older man looks _elated_ and seconds from cumming himself, like he'd happily let Luis fuck every drop of his release into his face and be absolutely sated by it. God that's so hot, too hot.

With a wail muffled through gritted teeth, Luis pulls back, as the hand not gripping Clint's hair moves quickly to wrap around himself, jerk himself as he guides himself down. He slams his lips shut so the others outside won't hear him, the groan trapped deep in his throat, as he watches the first runner go over Clint's lips and chin. The second pulse splashes across the archer's chest and down his belly. The younger man directs the rest onto the archer's cock and Clint outright moans. Luis can only imagine how hot and wet it feels, how fucking filthy. He gets the idea that's Clint's wheelhouse and he pushes the older man's head down so the archer can watch Luis' release splattering him. He rings out every last drop from himself. 

Finally his grip on the older man loosens, his fingers moving to card through the short brown hair as the younger man slowly comes down. The bigger man tilts his head back and Luis surveys what a gorgeous mess he's made of him. His eyes slide over the trail of cum on Clint's chin and lips as the archer makes a show of licking it off, then they keep moving up to lock on Clint's.

"You can nod or shake your head now, but no talking. Do you wanna get off while I watch?"

A vigorous nod. 

"Stroke yourself," Luis commands, voice smoky. "But you can't finish until I say." 

The archer eagerly wraps a hand around himself and starts moving, whimpering and furrowing his brow at the feeling on his long-exposed, neglected and now very slippery cock. 

"Not too fast," Luis whispers, still petting his hair. "Make it last. Make it good." Clint slows his motion, puts a twist in. "Play with your balls," the younger man instructs and the archer moves his free hand to lightly squeeze and fondle them, a breathy sound coming out of him. "That's good, papi. Ahhh, you look so sexy stroking off with my load. You made me cum so much, didn't you?" Another nod. "Did you like me jerking off on you?" Hard nod. "Mmm, good. I liked that too. I think even more than doing it in your mouth. Like getting you all messy. Marking up that sexy body." 

Luis' free hand slips around Clint's neck, thumb and middle finger pressing in, lightly reducing the blood flow to his brain as the squeeze of his palm over his windpipe just barely effects his breathing. 

"Is that good?" 

Another nod, stilted by Luis' grip. He looks down to see the archer's big hand moving faster over himself, the other squeezing his sac tighter, pulling it a bit away from his body. 

"You're getting close," he whispers. "You want it harder?"

A whimper, a nod. 

Luis squeezes tighter, let's his fingertips and palm press into the meat of the bigger man's neck, restricting his arteries and windpipe a bit more. Clint looks utterly blissed out, making soft little gasps, big lids half closed, mouth hanging open and still shiny with a bit of Luis' release, lipstick smeared onto his cheek. He's working himself frantically now. 

"You wanna finish?" 

Nod.

"When I say, you can do it on your belly. I wanna see you paint those incredible abs." 

Whimper, nod, hand moving quicker. 

"Not yet," Luis coos, grip tightening. 

Clint makes a muffled groan.

"Not yet." 

The small man's hand tightens and the archer's face gets a bit red as his breathing constricts more, eyes glazing, the hand flying over himself making loud, sloppy, wet sounds. Luis takes it all in, then makes hard eye contact with him.

"Cum for me, papi," he demands. 

The archer let's out a choked, rasping bellow as Luis watches rope after rope of thick release cover his belly. The bigger man's whole body spasms, hips stuttering up into his grip, head jerking back, limbs shaking. Luis keeps choking him through the whole thing, watching him with wide, hungry eyes as Clint just keeps cumming. 

"That's right papi, empty those fat balls," he practically growls, entranced as his eyes flit from Clint's own to his hand working his pulsing cock, some part of his mind scandalized at all the crazy shit that seems to come out of his mouth when he's with the archer. 

When the older man starts shaking hard with aftershocks, Luis loosens his grip, then releases him totally as Clint's messy hands drop to his own thighs. He's quivering everywhere, gasping, and looks completely doped out of his mind. Luis thinks it's a wonder he's staying upright - he pushes him lightly on the shoulder and the archer falls over backwards, legs folded under him. 

"Nnnn," is all the bigger man manages.

Chuckling, Luis kicks his own pants the rest of the way off then urges Clint to straighten his legs and removes his. The archer mumbles something incoherently as, with considerable effort, Luis scoops the bigger man up and carries him to the shower. Clint can barely stand and the smaller man leans him against the wall, supporting him with his shoulder as he turns on the water, tests the temperature then takes down the extendable shower head. 

"You did so good, papi. So good," he whispers as he rinses their combined release off the archer. 

Putting the shower head back, he grabs some body wash (reading the ingredients to make sure it won't bother him) and spreads it on his hands, then washes Clint in slow, relaxing circles. The bigger man leans his head against the wall, closes his eyes, hums pleasantly, holding onto Luis' arms for balance. After the younger man washes the archer's face and sweaty hair he eases him to sit on the bench built in to one end of the big tub while his conditioner sets. He knows some dry ass hair in need of a treatment when he sees it. The older man watches him scrub and rinse himself with warm, hazy eyes, a little smile on his face. 

"You're beautiful," Clint offers dreamily.

Luis smiles, blushes a bit at how genuinely in awe Clint looks. Soon he has them rinsed, out and dry, wrapped in thick robes and settled into the freshly made bed. The archer watches him turn on the holodeck, flip through movie selections as he sits on the edge of the mattress. Suddenly he leans from where the younger man had propped him up against some pillows, pulls Luis back and around for a long, slow kiss that drips with affection, then settles the smaller man against his broad chest and takes the remote. They watch one of Clint's favorites, Big Trouble in Little China, then fall asleep wrapped up together. Luis wakes up the next morning on top of the bigger man, listening to his heartbeat and slow, relaxed breathing, as Clint gently pets Luis' curls.


	105. Crimson and clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang have a surprise visitor.

Buck picks up new satellite data the following evening that the storm will break faster than expected; the Claptrappers and freed scramble to get everything packed and reload the trucks at first light. Leaving the small city goes a lot faster with four Soldiers to clear the path instead of just one, but it is still relatively slow travel with debris from the recent storm. Steve, Win and some of the freed drive the trucks, carefully swerving around obstructions and stopping to wait for things to be dragged off. 

Clint is still worried about Paul being alone with the other freed and insists he rides with the Claptrappers. Despite his previous negative experiences, the small man asks that a few of the other former slaves be allowed to ride in their truck, so there's more space in the others. After the archer finds out the petite man is a good shot he offers for him to join in the crow's nest. Paul mentioned himself and his husband were avid outdoorsmen, so it shouldn't have shocked Clint he was a hunter, but the archer still has a hard time hiding his surprise. 

"Is it because I'm such a huge, obvious, cliche bottom?" Paul gasps, feigning offense. "An ageing twink drag queen!" He puts a hand to his forehead dramatically.

"_I'm a bottom,_" the archer mumbles, then reddens a bit when he realizes he said it outloud.

The smaller man's eyes go wide before he laughs. "Luis must be a real charmer, huh? First guy you're with and he gets you sprung on the D." 

"Wow, is it that obvious I've never had a boyfriend?" Clint queries - Paul nods. "Actually, for the record, Nat got me into butt stuff."

"Daaaamn, you have zero filter. That's why I like you. But yeah, I have killed and eaten plenty of cuddly animals. I used to hashtag posts on our vlog, aptly titled Gays With Guns, with things like _queers hunt deers_. I'm not sure what was worse, all the right-winger hate comments, or the daddy-bear rednecks hitting on me. Apparently effeminate men knowing how to camp is just super hot to a certain demographic."

_ _"You helped them pitch their tents," Clint jests - Paul chuckles and continues to scan the area with his scope. "So...I...met your husband a few times, at parties. When he was still wrestling." _ _

_ _"I know. Every time we saw you on TV or in a magazine he'd bring it up... and how cute you were." Paul rolls his eyes playfully._ _

_ _"He seemed like a good dude. I'm...really -" _ _

_ _"Quiet," Paul says softly._ _

_ _"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to -"_ _

_ _The smaller man cuts him off with a hand to his mouth and points. Maybe Paul is hyper vigilant after everything that's happened to him or it's just the novelty of having a gun in his hands after being powerless for so long, but somehow he'd noticed the shape moving in the shadows through his site before any of the others. _ _

_ _"Two-three, Paul spotted something at ten o'clock," the archer whispers over the walkie. "Three floors up. It's...I don't think it's human." _ _

_ _A small, dark red shape scurries up a sheer wall, what appear to be long sharp fingers and toes digging into the brick facade._ _

_ _"One of Zola's creations could have escaped the lab in the explosion and followed us," Buck returns quietly. "The other Soldiers and I will deal with it. Drivers, continue on and we will catch up." _ _

_ _Steve comes over the channel. "We're not leaving without you," he says, soft but stern, stopping the lead truck and blocking the others behind him in the narrow path the Soldiers had cleared._ _

_ _"Seconded," Win chimes in, parking the rear truck and preventing the freed from backing up - she's nervous they'll scatter at the first sign of trouble, not that she blames them._ _

_ _There is a long pause before the Soldier responds. "Fine. But stay inside the vehicles, all of you. No matter what happens."_ _

_ _"Did you not just hear him?" Paul asks Jasper rhetorically - the walkie was going off on the bespectacled man's belt as he joined the others in the nest; he has a shiny new high powered rifle taken from the freed's armory stash. _ _

_ _"You've seen what some of these things can do. What if it's venemous like the Jack-thing? They could need back up." Sitwell taps the weapon. "This came with exploding rounds."_ _

_ _"Oh my God, is it super inappropriate to hope I get to see those in action?" the dark haired man muses as he keeps his sites on the creature. _ _

"You can _play with his gun_ later," Clint quips - Jasper scowls, but Paul chuckles. "Eyes peeled. There could be others." 

_ _The archer scans in multiple modes with his goggles, while the others use their scopes, but they find nothing. "Two-three, it seems to be alone." _ _

_ _With automatic weapons from the facility raised and at the ready the Soldiers head towards the target in combat formation. It's obvious how heavily their training to work as a unit comes to them, even Buck, as they direct their guns on it simultaneously from different angles. Suddenly the thing flings itself from the alley side of the building into the street below and lands ten feet from them._ _

_ _The Soldiers open fire instantly, but their bullets only deflect off its hide. It holds its talon-like fingers over its face and screeches. Red advances fastest and it slashes him across the arm. Dark purple sprays from the wound. Buck and the others alternate firing at it - which at most slows it down as every shot bounces off its crimson skin - and leaping in to attack it with fists and feet. They jump and duck and role to avoid its claws. The thing kicks out swiftly with a back foot, jamming its long, sharp toes into Ramos' vest and then whips her into the side of the building._ _

_ _"Fuck! It's not like the rotten ones. It's got armor!" Clint exclaims, binocular vision honing in on the creature. "It's skin almost looks like...petrified bark. They're healing from the injuries though." _ _

_ _"I bet it's eyes are soft enough," Jasper says calmly, lining up his rifle and waiting for an opening. _ _

_ _"You get its left and I'll get its right," Paul offers, surveying the fight through his scope._ _

_ _Finally the thing reveals it's face for longer than a second. He shifts his weapon to one hand suddenly and turns, grabbing the barrel of Sitwell's rifle. The ex-ops is mid trigger squeeze when Paul shoves it, causing Jasper to fire up in the air._ _

_ _"What the hell?" he demands as he pulls it free._ _

_ _"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Paul insists frantically. "Buck, stop!" he hollers and then he's climbing over the wall of the crow's nest._ _

_ _"Stop! It's not safe!" Jasper yells, lurching forward to grab him but missing._ _

_ _Paul drops off the side of the truck in a flash, his rifle abandoned._ _

_ _"On it!" Clint calls - before Jasper can scramble out of the nest, the archer is jumping the barrier, then he flips off the truck in a smooth motion to land on his feet, turn and run after Paul._ _

_ _"Buck! Buck, stop!" the dark haired man is yelling, running as fast as his skinny legs will carry him (which is a lot quicker than the archer would have thought him capable of)._ _

_ _Clint snatches him up fifteen feet from the chaos. "Have you lost it?!?! You tryna get yourself killed?!" he growls, big arms locked around the tiny waist as Paul kicks and flails._ _

_ _"IT'S MONET!" Paul screams. "BUCK, IT'S MONET!!!" _ _

_ _"The Xer girl who helped us?" Clint asks, incredulous._ _

_ _"I do not understand!" Buck yells back without looking._ _

_ _He has both of the creature's wrists in his grasp, his weapon hanging from its strap across his body, as Ramos and Washington restrain its ankles. Red is approaching with his knife drawn - they'd had the same idea as Jasper apparently._ _

_ _"Think about it! She went to the lab! It blew up! She didn't come back!" the dark haired man calls, struggling in the archer's grip. "I brushed that hair enough I'd know it anywhere! It's her! Please, Buck!" _ _

_ _The brunette Soldier looks at the creature, really looks at it. _ _

_ _Long, ratty, thick, dark hair. _ _

_ _Tattered remnants of blue jeans and a black vest with a white X just visible. _ _

_ _The face - all flat red stoney flesh like the rest and eyes that are solid ivory white, no pupils or irises - had appeared almost featureless at first, but now he can pick out something familiar in the shape of the mouth and nose._ _

_ _"Draw back!" he commands the other Soldiers, who instantly obey. _ _

_ _They move to form a large circle around it. The creature turns and snarls, clearly on the defensive, but not lashing out._ _

_ _"Let go," Paul instructs Clint. "Let go!!"_ _

_ _The archer complies, but Buck grabs his thin arm as he attempts to pass him._ _

_ _"Monet. Monet, it's me, Paul," he calls to the creature. "Do you remember me? I used to do laundry and kitchen duty with you and your mother and your sisters." _ _

_ _The creature stares, eyes going wider, head craning to the side. "Penance?" it rasps._ _

_ _"Paul," he says again, patting his chest._ _

_ _It - _she_ \- nods. "Penance," she offers in a tone that sounds like recognition as she slowly lowers her taloned hands a bit. _ _

_ _"Did Zola do this to you?" Paul asks softly._ _

_ _"Penance!" she growls and bends to rake her claws across the ground, prompting the brunette Soldier to pull the small man farther back. _ _

_ _"I'll take that as a yes. Is Zola dead?" _ _

_ _Her face turns from angry to frantic. "Penance," she rasps, shaking her head hard. "Penance!" Her shoulders fall as her voice cracks. "Penance! Penance, penance!" _ _

_ _"I need to go to her, calm her down," he tells Buck, urging the bigger man to release him with his boney hand._ _

_ _"She could attack you, as she did us," he insists, metal hand not loosening. "But you are far less _durable_."_ _

_ _"She didn't attack you! She jumped down and you guys started firing so she defended herself. She's obviously traumatized and confused. You see what he did to her!" He looks up into the bigger man's eyes earnestly. "Please, trust me. I know this girl really well. Let me go." _ _

_ _The brunette Soldier hesitantly relaxes his grip and Paul slowly approaches her. "It's okay, Monet. No one is gonna try to hurt you again, I promise."_ _

_ _"Penance! Penance!" she repeats, eyeing the Soldiers nervously. _ _

_ _Paul turns to Buck. "Can your people back off?" _ _

_ _"Return to guarding the trucks," the brunette Soldier orders, "and take these," he adds, handing Red his weapons. "I will stay close."_ _

_ _"Penance, penance penance penance," she repeats, gesturing._ _

_ _"I'm sorry, sweety, I don't understand," Paul responds, stopping well within the range of her reach, hands held out placatingly, palms up. _ _

_ _She growls, bends and swipes the ground in frustration. Buck jerks forward but Paul holds up a hand to stop him as he eyes the gouges in the dirt._ _

_ _"That's it. You can just draw!" he says, pointing to the ground. He pulls a hunting knife from a holster on his belt and she jerks back. "It's okay! It's okay!" he says, squatting down. _ _

_ _Paul carves his name out in the dirt and she watches. "Show me what happened to you," he instructs quietly, wiping the word away in the soil with his hand._ _

_ _She kneels, scratches out a shape with one long talon._ _

_ _"A syringe?" Paul queries - she nods. _ _

_ _"He was trying to recreate the red serum," Buck offers. _ _

_ _Another nod. Paul just looks puzzled._ _

_ _"Did you find your sisters?" the smaller man asks hesitantly._ _

_ _Monet draws two stick figures, points to the syringe then to them. She draws an x where each of their eyes should be._ _

_ _"I'm so sorry," he says softly as she wipes away her drawings with the side of her hand._ _

_ _"Did you see Zola, after the explosion?" the Soldier asks. _ _

_ _She nods, leans to draw a crude face in the dirt. It's clear from the circles around the eyes - a pair of round spectacles - it's the doctor. She damages part of his face with the pointy ends of her fingers._ _

_ _"He was hurt in the blast?" Paul guesses._ _

_ _She nods. _ _

_ _"Bad from the looks. Probably won't make it."_ _

_ _She shakes her head. She draws a wide open smiling mouth on the face, then long, jagged teeth inside it, like a shark._ _

_ _"He used the other serum on himself, like the one he gave Brock that made him Crossbones?" Buck queries, fear and disgust warring in his voice._ _

_ _Monet nods, then bows her head to scribble out what looks like a domed shape with a series of boxes on it, each one topped with a triangle. Below the dome she draws a big rectangle, then scratches a grid pattern over it._ _

_ _Paul eyes the shapes. "Houses? On a hill?"_ _

_ _She nods._ _

_ _"What's this?" he asks, pointing to the rectangle below the dome._ _

_ _"A glass block wall," Buck offers quietly. "We described the basics to her of our settlement." The anxiety is obvious in the Soldier's voice._ _

_ _She draws a series of stick figures next to Zola, carves an X over each chest, then adds several big arrows from the cluster of people towards the image of the junktown._ _

_ _Buck grabs the walkie off his belt and speaks into it urgently. "Zola is enhanced and taking what is left of Crossbones' army to Claptrap. Jasper, you need to reach out to Fury right away. They must get ready." He releases the button, turns to Paul. "We need to leave. Now." _ _

_ _"Not without her." _ _

_ _The Soldier stares at her, calculating, hesitating. "She is very dangerous and will frighten the others."_ _

_ _"I'm sure people have said that about you," Paul retorts, rising to his feet - Buck's eyes go wide and he frowns. "It's not her fault this was done to her anymore than it's your fault that was done to you. I _won't_ leave her. She can ride up top with me, away from the others."_ _

_ _Sighing hard, the bigger man nods and turns to head to the other Soldiers and continue removing debris. _ _

_ _"Come on, honey," Paul says, offering her his hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."_ _

_ _She very carefully takes it, avoiding touching the blade-like sides on the last few inches of her long fingers to his skin, and they walk to the Claptrappers' truck. She hoists him up effortlessly and jumps up on top a few feet from the nest, a wide-eyed Jasper - semi-leveling his rifle after putting his freshly used communicator away - and Clint looking over the girl._ _

_ _"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to stare?" the dark haired man quips, snapping his fingers at them several times. "_Muscles,_ she needs clothes. And a comb. And water." _ _

_ _"Yes, sir," Clint responds mockingly, but drops through the hatch._ _

_ _"Welly, put that fucking gun barrel on your shoulder or I'll jam it up your ass," Paul demands - the ex-ops mouth snaps shut and he does as he's told. _ _

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _._ _


	106. I spy with my little eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang takes a forced pit stop on their way home.

It's not even a full forty-eight hours before Steve and the others encounter the first Xer crew. Crossbones had units all over the coast and moving inland, scouring for settlements to take advantage of, collecting tribute, scavenging, handling rival military groups and clusters of reavers, burners and gangs that encroached on their territory. It wouldn't have been difficult for Zola to get them searching for the escapees once he had _turned_, once the commanders left at the Xer settlement were frightened enough of what he'd become to put him in charge.

"Fuck, there's so many," the mechanic half-whispers, diverting around a wrecked car and checking out the encroaching vehicles in his driver's side mirror. 

The Claptrappers and freed are outnumbered significantly - the Xers have a caravan of six trucks following at high speed. They're largely open-backed, smaller, lighter and faster than the gang's cargo and refrigerator trucks. He can see each is mostly full of armed soldiers. 

"They do not have four Winter Soldiers," Buck calmly points out as he pulls his walkie from his belt and gives the order for their own trucks to stop and circle.

They'd planned for running into hostiles - the vehicles round up like chuckwagons in the old west, the occupants taking to the rooves en masse in all directions to watch for other encroaching enemies and prepare to fire on the approaching Xers. Buck, Washington and Red run serpentine towards the enemy, taking out their drivers, radiators and tires with the WS grade weapons from the facility. They each leap into an open vehicle and start tearing people apart with their bare hands, not wasting a single of their own irreplaceable bullets. Instead they pull weapons from their victims to fire into the crowded trucks when they're not biting, tearing and slashing.

Ramos stays back to guard the others - she and those on the truck rooves facing the enemy pick off combatants as they exit the other crippled Xer trucks. Clint, Jasper and Nat are taking out an Xer with every shot from atop the Claptrappers' truck, the freed varying widely in skill but getting the job done well enough between their numbers and having the higher ground. Paul picks off several of the encroaching assailants as well, but he's winged in the arm a few minutes into the fighting.

Monet's eyes go big then narrow as she growls and leaps out of the crow's nest, running in the direction the shot had come from. She single-handedly takes down the whole advancing squad, slashing with her taloned hands and feet, her stoney hide deflecting their bullets and blades while her friends watch wide-eyed. The redheaded assassin whistles in admiration.

Steve itches to use his own weapon - he's stuck behind the wheel of the Claptrappers' vehicle, unable to fire from the shielding of the cabin or safely exit. He can see his boyfriend in the thick of the fight through the pinholes in the driver's side window plating and can _feel_ Buck so clearly, the Soldier not even attempting (or unable in his current distracted state) to mitigate the flow of the emotions and sensations coming from him. Other than concern for his friends he's utterly unafraid, but he is almost righteously angry. There's something else there Steve only vaguely recognizes from his own bodily experienceas as the spark of hunger before it grows into a massive wildfire that even experiencing near-starvation paled in comparison too.

The blonde's eyes roll back into his head as Buck's need hits him full force through the bond, unleashed from the mental shackles the Soldier usually keeps it in. It's this awful, gnawing, heavy thing that turns his insides to knots and seems to deaden his higher thinking. He has just enough time to realize he'd do anything to make it stop before it changes into something almost _pleased_ and grows into an intense satisfaction, even as it still demands. There's warmth against him and an incredible, indescribable taste in his mouth - fruit, woodsmoke, and yet neither of those things. It's intoxicating.

He realizes the Soldier is _feeding_, killing, the way he's often seen him do - ripping out arteries and bathing in blood as he gluttonously drinks. Heat spreads through Steve's insides coupled with a feeling of pleasure that is vastly different from anything he's experienced, even through their bond as Buck fed on him. It's not better per say (if anything, Buck liked their time together pulse-bonded in the tub far more), just incredibly _primal_ for lack of a better word. He can feel the Soldier teetering on the knife's edge of giving in to it completely, of becoming an animal that no longer has to think, only feel. His boyfriend walks that line expertly, not giving in to the need, but using its savagery to his advantage.

Steve's body goes limp and convulses lightly each time the overwhelming sensations blast through him as Buck intermittently drinks. The flavors in his mouth change again and again, familiar but foreign simultaneously and not at all salty or coppery like blood normally tastes to Steve. His head moves back and forth against the high seat and he lets out a series of helpless, choked moans as his back arches. It becomes apparent he's not at all prepared for this and he feels dangerously close to blacking out. He scrambles to escape their connection and with some effort manages to pull back significantly until the experience is just a hot buzz through his core fanning out into his limbs. 

Luis, in the passenger seat of the truck Win is driver of, is dealing with a lighter version of the same phenomenon. The sensations are far less intense, but he still lets out a surprised little sound and grips the handle on the glovebox. Nothing like this ever happened in the past, even at the height of his time with Winter in the apartment building. He can't imagine the Soldier is pushing the feelings to him on purpose - instead he guesses Buck is like a giant radio transmitter blasting out what he's experiencing to those tuned to his station. 

When the green-eyed man gathers his thoughts enough he tries to _move the dial_, resisting picking up as much of the signal, until only the slightest sensation of warmth and a mild vibration in his midsection remain. The welder eyes him with concern until he composes himself, puts a hand on his cheek. 

"I'm okay," he pants, putting his over it. "I'm okay." 

The Soldiers, Monet and the snipers make quick work of the enemy and there are no casualties, only a few minor injuries and two non-threatening bullet wounds which Ramos quickly deals with before joining the others to feed. They organize to start picking over the bodies and trucks, garnering them body armor, boots, gasoline, spare tires, even more weapons and food. Buck calls Jasper on his walkie and asks the ex-ops to join him with the laid out, stripped bodies. When Sitwell meets up with him, the brunette Soldier reaches out with both hands and pulls the glasses and then the gauze from his face in swift, smooth motions. 

"What are you...?" Jasper rasps, hands going up defensively. 

"I'm _eyeballing it_," Buck says softly, leaning over him.

"Huh?" is all the ex-ops can manage. 

"That expression means to roughly measure based on a visual survey, yes?" the Soldier queries - the smaller man nods, baffled. "I was making a pun. As you are missing an eye. And I am approximating the size and shape of it." 

"Ummm, okay. I don't think you've got a career in comedy." 

Buck turns and considers various corpses as he mumbles, "Retinal deformity...Shrapnel damage...Too large... Too small. Advanced infection. Shot out. Too large...Ahh, this one." 

He leans over to dig his fingers into one of their faces and pulls the eye from the skull carefully. 

"Holy hell," Jasper breathes as Buck removes the extraneous tissue, careful to leave the nerves, veins and part of the muscle around it. 

The Soldier stands, holding the squishy mass delicately and says calmly to Sitwell, "Tilt your head back and hold your lids open for the empty socket." When Jasper does not comply, only gapes, Buck excitedly continues. "I told you I had an idea of how to handle your problem. This one has no degeneration or injury and is the correct size." 

Sitwell stares a moment longer, then mutters "fuck it" and leans his head back, pulls the upper and lower lids back with his finger and thumb. 

"This will hurt a small amount," the Soldier offers as he pushes a finger into the socket, pulling it out slightly curled a few times to scoop out build up as well as rough up the edges of the muscle remnants in the socket with a fingernail. 

"Fuck!" Jasper growls, but he doesn't move.

Buck looks impressed at the smaller man's fortitude as he pulls his hand back, fingertip red with fresh blood. He bites the side of his hand and lets his own purple blood pour into the open socket, then does it again quickly on the dangling nerve bundle of the harvested eye, then lowers it into the hole. When it is almost completely in, the Soldier gently presses on the eyeball with the side of his knuckle until it pops into place. He punctures his thumb with a canine and puts a few more drops of blood onto the freshly inserted eye. 

"Blink and roll it around," Buck instructs. 

He looks and sounds fascinated and Jasper realizes this is totally new territory for the Soldier - Sitwell was now his guinea pig. Ironic, that, a Winter Soldier experimenting on a former Operations employee. The entire thing fucking burns and throbs and he can feel _something_ happening deeper in his head. The eyeball is not moving despite his attempts, but it is watering like crazy - nothing new since Crossbones had just pulled the orb and connective tissue out and the tear duct works just fine. It was lucky that Brock didn't rip a chunk out of his head, he supposes, since the Soldier may have tried to carve out part of his face and reattach someone el- 

"Oh!" Jasper exclaims.

He can see. The vision is cloudy and dim at first, the orb reluctant to move, but slowly it rolls in the socket. As Jasper blinks, his sight clears. It sharpens significantly and he quickly realizes he has a different concern.

"So, this new one has basically perfect vision."

"Yes!" Buck responds excitedly, smiling. "I could tell it was a good specimen."

"Not to look a gift horse in the eye, but my sight is normally terrible without corrective lenses, meaning my glasses - which I still need for my other eye - will make the new eye's vision super blurry." 

"Would you like me to replace the other eye as well?" the bigger man offers.

"No! No!!" Jasper says quickly taking half a step back and instinctually covering his birth eye.

The Soldier pulls Sitwell's glasses from where he'd slipped them into a pouch on his belt and uses a thumb to pop out the unneeded lense, then carefully slides the frames on the bald man's head. 

"Sufficient?" he asks pleasantly enough.

"Uh...Yeah. Thank you, Buck." 

"You are welcome, Jasper." 

The Soldier smiles and pats the smaller man on the shoulder, the gesture getting an even more surprised look from Sitwell than any of his previous actions. It's something he's seen him do to Clint and the others.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Sitwell blurts out. "It wasn't so long ago you threatened to rip off my arms."

"You helped save Steve. You helped save me to save Steve." 

"Doesn't that...I don't know...make you think I'm meddling or trying to get in good with him or whatever? It would have before," Jasper says pointedly, unsure why he's broaching this subject. 

Buck bows his head, thinking. 

"You were right, at the paper factory. I was jealous of you, that you were human and able to offer Steve...normalcy. But...I no longer believe I need to provide that for Steve to love me. I can...feel that he does." The Soldier puts a hand to his chest. "I know precisely what his emotions are in my regard." He looks up at Jasper. "Also, I have watched you change these weeks. These people," he gestures towards the truck, "they changed me as well. You have earned their trust and respect. Or as much respect as they are able to show anyone," he adds with a small smile as they see Clint stick his tongue out at Nat and her smack him upside the head. "You have mine as well. Should that change, I can still easily remove your limbs at a later date." 

"Noted," Jasper responds with a smirk. 

They head back to the Claptrappers' truck, Buck going to the cab where Steve is getting situated as Jasper hops in the back to climb the ladder to the nest. 

"Woah! Who put the acid in my squirrel jerky?" Clint blurts out, pointing the snack in question at Sitwell's face. "He stuck a fucking perished guy's eye into your noggin,' didn't he? Fuck! I bet you'll like, see dead people and shit now." 

"I see plenty of them," Jasper deadpans, motioning to the Xer corpses. 

"Even made a few. And he might make another if you keep being so rude," Nat snarks at the archer, then tilts her head as Jasper starts checking his rifle.

"Then he'll see me...as a ggggghooooosssttt! OooOooOoo! With his pooossessed eeeeye!!!" Clint says in his best spooky kid's show voice, wiggling his fingers in front of his face melodramatically. "Couldn't Bucky have found one that matched at least?" he adds, dropping his hands as the redhead elbows him. 

"What do you...? _Oh shit,_" Jasper says softly.

He digs in his pocket to pull out a small mirror he uses to see over things if he's pinned behind cover in a firefight. 

"It's fine. It's not that noticable," the assassin insists, surprising Clint and herself with her attempt to be (_gag_) nice. 

Paul puts his hand over Sitwell's arm, stopping him from raising it. "Maybe you should just... use it for a bit. Appreciate the utility." 

"I'm about to," Sitwell insists, carefully pulling from the smaller man's grip. "Okay then," he says almost too calmly as he surveys his face - his own eye is a deep, warm chocolate brown and the new one is slate gray with little spokes of hazel around the pupil. 

"You know, heterochromia isn't that uncommon," Paul offers.

"That would be the only hetero thing up here," Clint quips, gesturing between the four of them with a grin.

"Pleeeeeeease, one-step-away-from-straight boy," Paul quips. "The rest of us queers are just letting you be an honorary member because you and Luis are hot and soooo disgustingly smooshy together." 

"Psssssh," Clint let's out dismissively. "We're not like... Bucky and Stevie gross cutesie.... Are we?" 

"You practically have heart eyes for each other like one of those Japanese cartoons since the other morning," Nat ribs him, smirking.

She'd seemed pretty fine with the whole massage/ movie night/ sleep over thing, but probably Win fucking her brains out loudly in the next room in the middle of the night helped her out. The noise had woke Clint up and then the chest bounce of his chuckling had just barely roused Luis, who mumbled a few things in Spanish about goats before the bigger man shushing and petting him put him right back out. 

"Uh, it's called anime," Paul corrects Nat in an exaggeratedly snarky tone. "And having two different colored eyes is fairly common in it," he adds to Jasper almost sweetly.

"_And in zombie plague movies,_" Clint grumbles.

"It's very striking," the petite, dark-haired man continues.

"That's code for weird," the archer too-loud whispers. 

Jasper frowns and the two smaller people shoot daggers at Clint, who raises his eyebrows then slowly makes the _oh, I'm being an asshat again_ face. His mouth twists for a second as he watches the ex-ops' expression turn a bit manic. Paul and Nat try to calm Jasper down with reassuring words to no avail. The redhead can practically see the light bulb go off above Clint's head a minute later and almost expects him to apologize. Almost. 

"That new eye is close to the same gray as Bucky's dick, Jasper. It's like you have a part of him inside you," Clint mocks. "And having Bucky inside you would give you and Steve something in common finally. You two do anything freaky with that empty socket before he put in the replacement? Now that you're all _yay, I'm queer_ and stuff. Maybe he just, you know, popped the tip in?"

There's a brief moment of stunned silence from the others then Sitwell abruptly swings at the archer - Clint doesn't even try to block or dodge him and it connects with a flat thud.

"Ow! Fuck! Your face is like a boulder!" Sitwell harps as he shakes his hand. 

"Mama always said I was hardheaded," the archer chuckles.

"Did you just goad me into slugging you, Barton?" Jasper squawks. "And then _let me_ follow through?"

"Yeah. You feel better?" 

The ex-ops face practically caves in he's pinching it towards the center so hard, but then it smooths out. "Yes, actually." 

"Damn, you punch a lot harder than I thought you would," Clint says offering his fist at chest level, which Sitwell stiffly bumps as the archer moves his jaw back and forth and rubs the joint with his free hand. "The eye looks pretty fucking cool honestly and it's a badass story to impress all the..." He eyes Paul. "Twacks?" 

"Twinks," Paul chuckles. "See? You're a terrible queer," he sighs. 

Buck gives the word over the walkie to head out and then leans over and rests his head on Steve's narrow shoulder. They're all more confident than before they can handle whatever Zola will throw at them, especially with the other Claptrappers prepared behind the wall. Only much later will they realize how naive that thinking was.


	107. Country roads, take me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dysfunction is revealed as Claptrap grows more near.

They lose six of the freed in an ambush during a pit stop. The small town had seemed abandoned - the Xers had covered themselves in mud and rotting corpse guts to mask their scents from the Soldiers and simply laid with the other dead in the shadows of burnt out buildings. They waited patiently for the searchers to spread out, to get comfortable with the idea they were alone. It was only a small unit, probably a scouting detachment, but their chance encounter with the larger battalion had allowed efficient deduction of where Buck and the others would end up. 

Zola was turning out to be far more clever than Brock in some regards, far more wreckless in others, willing to divert resources from Crossbones' empire to focus solely on his goal. Rumlow had wanted to have his cake and eat it too - what was the point of gaining more power from the serums if he had to waste it reclaiming territory he'd squandered?

They find the Xers' truck a few miles away hidden behind a barn and deal with the driver and guards easily enough. There are ten people in the back, bound and gagged. They're all teenagers and young adults, no doubt to be used as bargaining chips when gaining favor with rivals or to trade for commodities. Now that the Xers on the road were redirected to search for the Claptrappers' caravan, they would need safe passage and supplies their distant settlement couldn't provide. 

"Sex slaves," Nat says flatly. "One of the modern world's most stable currencies."

Steve is in the truck immediately, cutting them loose. Buck joins to help, face twisting as emotions flow into him from the mechanic - this was the blonde's lot in life not so long ago. A hairy middle aged guy with wavy black hair, a thick moustache and light olive complexion steps up as others help the young people out of the vehicle. Clint recognizes him as the ringleader of the freed hassling Paul at the hotel - he had all those guys with him and more, over a dozen total forming a tight cluster. Like everyone, they're armed. The archer notches an arrow, but keeps his bow pointed down, and notices Nat's hands go to her pistol grips in response. 

"They have nothing to offer. No supplies. Probably no skills beyond _the obvious,_" the man barks. "It's not worth it to bring them with us."

"The Claptrappers could have said the same about us, Jordan," Paul interjects. "We only have anything to offer their settlement because they freed us and helped us take it. You owned a corner store before the collapse. Think there's a lot of call for that skill set in this world?"

"No one's talking to you, bloodslut!" Jordan sneers. "Shouldn't you be somewhere with a vampire cock in your mouth? I mean, that's how you made it in the mansion, then the penthouse and now into the least crowded truck, right?" 

Paul roles his eyes. "I would drink a _gallon_ of one of these undead guy's semen to not have to listen to you drone on one more minute."

Buck scowls at the word _undead_ and Paul shrugs apologetically. 

"We should put it to a vote," Jordan insists. 

"We are not leaving these _children_ here," one of the women freed from the Xer city declares. "Shame on you. What would your wife say?" 

"She would remind me she's dead because we wasted time and resources trying to help people who slowed us down, Mariah," Jordan shoots back. "We should leave your useless ass right here with them. Not a damn one of them can fight and neither can you. The whores either." He gestures at the cluster of women and men freed from the brothel in the Xer city. "Waste of resources to bring them."

The mechanic takes one of the Molotov cocktails he'd saved from the Xer ambush - a mason jar half full of accelerant with a hole punched in the tin lid, a rag fuse threaded through it - and walks up to the woman who had spoken up. He hands it to her and lights the rag fuse. She stares, confused.

"He's attacking Claptrap. What're you gonna do?" the blonde asks.

She throws it a few feet from Jordan and it bursts, the burning liquid setting his boots on fire. 

"Looks like she can defend the wall just fine to me," the mechanic offers as Jordan screams and kicks in the dirt to put out the flames. 

"You crazy little shit!" the mustachioed man hisses, fire finally out. 

He takes a step towards the blonde - Sitwell, Win and Nat are pointing guns at him in seconds and Clint has an arrow aimed at his throat just as fast. They're not Jordan's primary concern - that would be the sixish feet of brunette Winter Soldier suddenly hunched over him and growling in his face. Buck had relieved the agitator of his weapon in a blurred swipe so quick that even though Jordan stands empty handed, he's still in a stance like he's holding it. His compatriots aim their guns at Buck and the other Claptrappers - suddenly it's a stand off instead of an argument. 

"Call off your abomination," the wavy haired man says coldly to Steve, trying to hide the fact he's close to pissing himself but not doing a great job. 

"I'm not his boss," the mechanic says dismissively. 

"_We all know you have sex with it!_" Jordan counters.

"Oooo, I wouldn't call him it. He doesn't like that," the mechanic smiles as Buck growls louder, eyes glowing nearly white.

"Fuck this." Jordan gestures for the others to lower their weapons. "We should take _our trucks_ and supplies and find our own place! Leave these freaks and their junktown to deal with Crossbones' people. They want the Winter Soldiers, not us." 

The others standing with him nod or make sounds of agreement; the larger group of freed are quiet, looking around at each other. 

"No, fuck that," a former brothel worker finally speaks up. "We won't go back to being bossed around by some little dicked moron. We all fought to escape, to take the supplies. We all decide where we go and what happens to them." 

"To have a community where we're free, treated as equals, not sleeping in the scrub looking over our shoulders every second, I'll fight for that," another adds.

"Fuck those X wearing bastards!" a younger man chimes in. "We'll make our stand at the junktown."

"Let'em come! I've got a bullet for each of 'em," an older woman offers. 

"You fucks can go with them, die with them for all I care. But we want what's ours!" Jordan insists. "Give us our share and one of the trucks." 

Ultimately eighteen people decide to go with him. Some of the other freed and Nat don't want to let them, don't want to relinquish any of the weapons or supplies. The Claptrappers and Buck huddle together in discussion, the other Soldiers keeping the peace. 

"We are not slavers," Buck says firmly. "We will not keep them against their will. The woman is right. They all fought for the spoils. They should divide them."

"We can't afford to lose a single weapon or set of hands. Don't forget what we're up against here," the assassin counters. "Twenty rifles on the wall is two hundred dead Xers in the sand."

"What do you suggest? We kill the leader? Force the others to fight for us?" Clint quips - she gives a curt nod. "I mean, fuck that assclown Jordan. But we're no better than Rumlow if we start forcibly drafting folks. No better than the people in the Red Room."

The redhead makes her face a mask, avoiding reacting to the mention of the training program she'd been forced into as a girl, a thing she'd only spoken about occasionally and in the most vague of terms to her husband. Clearly he'd put a lot more together than she'd given him credit for. 

"This is about the survival of our community. There'll be time for democracy and ethics later!" the assassin counters.

"I do not like letting them go, but if we refuse to give them their share or kill their leader, they may fight back," Win adds. "Some of the others who are on the fence may join in if they think we will hold them against their will."

"Then I will be forced to kill them to protect all of you. I do not want that," Buck insists. "Please. Let the ones who want to leave do so with their supplies." 

"Loudmouth and his buddies will be nothing but trouble if they stay," Steve adds. "I know I'd kill that guy eventually. I can feel it in my bones." 

"They have information about us, about the town. That's far more valuable than any supplies and worth protecting. Jasper, you were trained to assess a situation the same way as I was. You have to see tactically I'm right," Nat states emphatically.

"Please," Paul interjects. "These are good people for the most part. Your friend, Greta, promised them fair treatment and a place in Claptrap if they helped you return there safely and you all backed that up before we went to the hotel. Don't let a few assholes turn this into something it doesn't need to be. No one has to get hurt. Not even Jordan." 

"A lot of us here know what it means to have our choices taken away." Sitwell looks pointedly at Nat. "It's not the smartest play to let them go, but it...feels right." 

"Then it is decided," Buck says, clearly relieved. "I will inform the others."

"Idiots! You're putting us and the town in danger." The redhead turns and abruptly storms off as the Soldier moves to discuss logistics with the freed.

"One of you should go talk to her," Luis offers.

Clint and Win look at each other, then break into a game of rock, paper, scissors. 

"Best out of three!" the archer whines when he loses, but the welder just flips him off and moves to slide under Luis' arm. The green-eyed man gives him an apologetic grin and shrugs one shoulder, giving Win a squeeze with the arm over hers.

Clint finds Natasha stewing inside the farm house they'd already cleared.

"Baby," he says simply, kneeling down in front of her and gripping her forearms lightly, his bow already across his back. He's ready for her to yell, to complain, to berate him or question his loyalty (even though she won't mean it), but he isn't prepared for what happens next. 

Her mask flickers as she looks down at him. "I'd kill them all," she whispers. "I'd kill every last person on earth to keep you and our family safe. Every last one." 

Clint can see all her carefully compartmentalized emotions starting to leak out the cracks of their containment areas. He knows she's angry, yes, but more so afraid of losing control - over the situation, over life, over herself. Words and gentle touches won't comfort her the way they did Luis; when she's like this making her feel completely in charge of him is all that helps. It's not like when the green-eyed man took control in the hotel - that was a sexy game Luis enjoyed only because the older man did. It's not even like he and Nat's usual forays into domination and submission. When Clint gives control over to his wife when she's like this it is not for pleasure. It's because she needs to unleash the darkness inside on someone that isn't herself before it tears her apart or escapes in other, more violent ways. 

Clint releases her arms, stands, takes off the bow and quiver. He slips his belt off, folds it over and hands it to her. Without a word he undoes his black jeans, slides them down to his knees - as usual there's nothing beneath. He bends over the kitchen table. 

"What's your safe word?" she says firmly.

"Pelican," he responds calmly even though he never uses it when she's like this, no matter what she does. 

He's barely done speaking before the worn leather snaps across his bare ass cheek hard, the crack of it echoing a bit in the big room. She whips him with it again and again, not bothering to start gentle, alternating between sides of his ass and his thighs, even occasionally his sac (though a bit lighter). Clint hands himself over to her without question or fear and she knows this is about giving her what she needs, that no matter how she humiliates him, hurts him, he'll take it when she's in this mood. It's exhilarating and terrifying because sometimes she doesn't know when to stop.

She's usually a solid dom, when she's in her normal headspace, strict about rules and safety even though she's tough, but when she's like this she knows the exchange between them isn't exactly healthy. Clint puts himself at her mercy entirely, even though he's quite aware she's nearly merciless. It's one of the reasons she loves him so much, sick as it is. Nat tries to remember to reward his devotion when her fear and anger have sufficiently marked his flesh, but that doesn't always happen. Sometimes beating him and then ignoring him after, like he's nothing, feels necessary. Sometimes she's still too raw - if she lets herself _feel_ she can't avoid how much she needs him. She fears that weakness in the wrong moment will make every facade she's built crumble.

Today she doesn't need to cross the line too far to get herself back in order, to get the locks back on the boxes. Her rage cools. Her fear of losing him is tempered by him writhing under her hands, his skin hot. That gives her relief - she was afraid she wouldn't pull back this fast. She looks him over with admiration - Nat is convinced there's nothing as beautiful as the way his plump cheeks look covered in welts she put there. He has a surprisingly round ass for someone with so little body fat and she could play with it all day. His thighs are thick with muscle, so strong, and she loves watching them tremble helplessly, his raspy cigarettes and whiskey voice as high as it ever gets.

Today she has it in her to give something back. She can allow concern for his enjoyment without it blowing down any of her barricades. If anything she's eager for it and she uses all her best tools. Nat pulls his arms back and binds them with the belt, because she knows how much he loves getting restrained. She sucks the fingers of one hand into her mouth then pushes one into him without warning - he likes that too. Clint bellows low as her hand tangles in his short, spiky hair, pulls then pushes him down til the side of his face is against the table. Meanwhile she kicks his legs as wide as they'll go with the pants still around them. It's only a minute before she's got three dainty fingers in him. 

"You're wet and open," she says low, sultry but almost menacing. "Luis fucked you today, didn't he?" 

"Y-yes," he whimpers as she pushes in a fourth digit. 

"Where did you manage that?" 

"C-crow's nest," he stammers as she pushes her thumb in as well.

She slaps him, more playful now, palm on the back of his thighs and fingers landing over his perineum, forcing a guttural grunt out of him.

"You naughty boys. Where the lookouts on the other trucks could see?" she purrs darkly, fucking him with half her small hand - she doesn't sound upset about the idea in the least. 

"On the f-floor. Out of sight."

"On all fours? Your pants just yanked down? Your fat ass up in the air?" 

"Y-y-yes." 

"Did sweet little Luis fuck you slow and nice -" she muses, her movements becoming less aggressive, "or was it rough and fast?" 

She slams into him to accent her statement and he whimpers. She curves her hand down to more directly stimulate his spot. 

"Deep. Not f-fast but not slow." 

"You're greedy ass is spoiled getting filled so much." She pushes her hand in deeper with each thrust, but isn't as harsh in her motions as she watches his hole spread wider. "Does he fuck you better than me?" 

"N-no." 

"You like getting fucked by him a lot though, right?" 

"Yes." 

"He makes you cum hard?" 

"Y-yes."

"You let him cum in you? That's why you're so wet still?" 

"Yesssss," his answer turns to a hiss as she pushes into him deeper. 

She leans close to his ear, whisper slow and steady, utterly under control. "I like thinking about him fucking you. I like thinking about him filling you up just the way you want, getting you all stretched out for me." 

The hand pushed inside him slowly turns to a fist and he gasps. It's been a long time since they did this, and it had only been twice after a lot of prep and some liquor. He makes a sound like his lungs are trying to escape his body, his splayed legs kicking a bit. She had hesitated before, sure this would be the thing that was finally too much, but he had loved it both times.

"You like that, don't you? The pressure of it inside you. Being so stretched. So full." 

"Y-y-yes!" he wails.

"I want you to cum for my hand like you do for his cock," she says, biting his lobe after, starting to fistfuck him slowly. 

"Ahhhhhhuuhh!" is all he manages in reply. 

Nat grips the belt around his wrists, twists it tighter, presses his arms down firmly. She contemplates the elaborate ways she's going to tie him up when all this shit is over. Maybe she'll leave him out on the bed, bound, let the others take turns coming over to play with him. He'd like that. Oh the _hours_ they'll play with him. Her hand moves in and out of him more rapidly, filling him deeper, careful to rub the side of her knuckles over his prostate as his sounds get even more desparate. 

His sturdy body rocks on the table with the force of her pushing into him. Nat yanks harder on the belt, pulls his arms farther down and back, and her grasp stills him, makes her pound into him deeper. She can actually see his balls - big, but high, not dangly (she hates that) - tighten up, watches his hole flutter and then he's making a long, high, overwhelmed sound in his throat and flails around as his cock empties onto the floor under the table. He goes boneless immediately after, only jerking a few times as she releases her fist and then pulls her hand slowly from his body.

She feels accomplished, and doesn't exactly have words to express why. She realizes it's not a competition with Luis - it's not about being better at getting Clint off, or exercising more control over him. Maybe it's about learning from the green-eyed man, the ways he makes Clint happy that she doesn't. After she cleans up vigorously, she holds the archer's hand - something she virtually never allows - as they walk back, as they get in the truck. She can see how pleased it makes Clint, more than calming her down with his submission, more than his own orgasm.

Ultimately Jordan and the others are given the Xers' truck, two weeks supply of food and water if they ration, and they're allowed to keep their weapons and extra ammo. Other than a brief run in with a band of reavers, the rest of the trip is uneventful and they make good time back to the junktown. Clint spends as little of the trip sitting as possible.


	108. Salvation is free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang prepares for battle in different ways.

"Wow, it's beautiful!" Paul remarks as the midday sun glints off the glass block wall.

The lot of them are busy unloading the trucks, organizing weapons and ammunition to take up on the wall, and getting the food to storage and the cooler. 

"Just like the person who invented it," Buck says with a soft smile before kissing Steve's reddening cheek.

The Soldier jumps effortlessly up into the truck and then back down with one of the massive water pumps as if it were a laundry hamper. Steve follows him off with a thick hose over his shoulder and an armload of pipe.

"I don't care what the others say. We are not _that gross_ cutesie," Clint grumbles to Luis as they return to one of the vehicles for more supplies.

"_Totally are_," Paul scoffs, heading off with a crate.

"I seem to recall you calling me beautiful in the shower not so long ago," the smaller man offers, tone playful but a bit shy. 

"That was different. We were alone, not PDA-ing," the archer says with false indignation - if anything he's the worst person he knows for keeping his hands to himself in public. His face turns to a mischievous grin. "And I couldn't help myself - you were wet. That's my weakness."

"So were you," Luis counters, leaning in a bit closer. "Definitely a good look."

"Aww I don't know. I'm alright lookin' naked I guess," the archer compliment fishes. 

"You're both pretty princesses," Win says as she walks over to them - she pinches Clint's and Luis' butts simultaneously. "Work now. Flirt later." 

Fury's voice cuts through the air from behind them. "A word with you, your highness?" He crosses his arms and stares the archer down with his good eye. 

"Don't have anything to add Jasper and Nat wouldn't have told you when they made report," Clint says curtly, taking the crate one of the freed hands down from the truck box. "Where are they anyway? Sitwell didn't wanna break a nail helping?" 

"They're where you should be. Getting the defense of this place in order," Nick snaps. "I need you checking the bows and getting them distributed, not playing grabass with your new harem. We only have so many bullets and I've had the extruder going non-stop since I got the call. Your fifty best archery students are waiting by it. You're gonna lead them on the wall when the enemy comes." 

"_This guy_," he says over his shoulder to Luis and Win with a shit eating grin. "It's always Clint kill this, Clint kill that. Clint, tell these other people who to kill." He steps up to Fury, lightly bumping the taller man with his crate. "Surprised you didn't ask me to kill the Soldiers for you too." 

"You're not loyal -" 

"Not to you," the archer cuts him off. "When this is over, I'm done being your attack dog. You treat me like I'm just another dumb civvy when it suits you, so I'm gonna act like one. No more runs." Clint thumps the wooden box against Fury's chest to emphasize his point, still smiling calmly. "No more missions." Thump. "No more training the next generation of obedient murderers." Thump. "I'll do a normal job like all these other yokels, eat my free lunch and stay the fuck away from you and your schemes, before I end up an even worse person than you've already made me." 

"You mighta been some innocent, pretty boy jock once upon a time but you were a dyed in the wool butcher already when we met, so don't lay that guilt trip on me. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you didn't have a steady supply of eyeballs to put arrows through, Barton," Nick spits, hunching towards him.

Clint huffs out a laugh. Somehow he manages to make it both friendly and menacing. "You fuck with my baby brother or his man again and I'll shoot out your good one quicker than any of your goons can stop me." 

The archer has the crate pushed hard against the bald man now, glaring up with a ferocity that says he means every word, that he gives no more shits about the ex-ops team ten feet away than he does the half a foot of height Fury has on him. 

"Ready when you are, if you think you got the stones," Nick barks, tilting his head. 

"Save your anger for Zola," Buck cuts in suddenly. "He is the immediate threat." He puts a hand on the archer's shoulder. "You should do as he asks, Clint. We do not know when, but they are coming. We must be ready." 

The archer glares hard at Fury for a long moment, lips pressed together in a maniac grin and working like he's trying to trap his voice inside his mouth. He pulls back with a snort. "Don't forget what I said, ol' man." 

"If we live through the week, we'll revisit this, Barton. Count on it," Nick promises.

The Soldier watches Clint group hug Win and Luis. They mumble to each other about staying safe, and the archer tells them if the wall doesn't hold, go to the rooves. He gives Buck a fist bump and finally heads for the extruder with a nod. The brunette jumps back in the truck to retrieve the last pump. Steve appears, strolls past them all silently to gather another firehose they took from the hotel. 

"That's not a priority right now," Fury instructs, clearly trying to get the blonde's attention. 

Steve says nothing and doesn't look in his direction.

"You will think differently when Claptrap is in flames," Win offers, gathering more pipe for the units.

"They will use fire, to try to harm me and the other Soldiers, as they did in the reavertown," Buck offers.

"I didn't know. About Rumlow," Nick tries again with the mechanic, who still doesn't acknowledge him. "I swear on my life." 

"Is your life worth any more to you than anyone else's is?" Steve quips as he whirls on him. "Hill. Coulson. Jasper. You must have thought Buck would kill them if they were successful in destroying the Soldiers. Or we'd all kill each other if your plan was discovered. But we're all expendable if you get what you want, right?" Steve glares up at the bigger man, who opens his mouth to speak - the blonde cuts him off. "So what is your life worth? Would you sacrifice it to accomplish your goal?!" 

"I won't say I was wrong and I won't apologize. I made the best choice with the information available. It was blind, dumb luck the situation worked out in your favor. I'm willing to adapt, though, willing to give sanctuary to the Soldiers... and whatever _that_ is." 

Fury gestures to Monet, watching from atop one of the trucks. 

"She's my friend, asshole," Paul snarks, returning to stand beside Steve. 

"Oh good! Now there's two of you," Nick groans.

"You're only willing to accept them because it fits your agenda today. What about after the threat is neutralized?" the blonde demands. 

"I won't take any action against them so long as they mind their Ps and Qs and do as they're told," Fury responds.

"And who decides those rules for them? Who gives them orders? You?" Luis chimes in, clearly displeased with the idea.

"We can go back to the way things were," Nick continues to Steve, not looking at the green-eyed man. "Ordered. Civilized. Or you lot can push me, and we can have a problem." 

"Maybe you should let Buck worry about his own and stay the fuck out of it," the green-eyed man counters.

"That goes double for Monet. You look at her wrong and you'll need a second eye patch." Paul literally Z snaps, which would be hilarious in different circumstances, but manages to look like a declaration of war under the current ones. 

"You wouldn't stand a chance against the Soldiers. Not with a hundred operatives, let alone this janky-ass bunch you got now," Luis continues. 

"He's already got something up his sleeve though, don't you Nick?" the mechanic queries. "A contingency plan. You had to know there was a chance we'd make it back with them." 

Fury breaks into a Cheshire cat-like grin, but says nothing. 

"Luis, call Red," Steve says calmly.

"No," Buck interjects, returning from depositing the pump. He grips the blonde's arm, moves to pull him away as the mechanic still locks eyes (eye) with Fury. "Please, come with me." Steve doesn't move - the Soldier can easily force him, but he doesn't, just makes the pressure on his arm a bit tighter to encourage him. "Please. I wish to go home." 

The blonde finally concedes, allows Buck to move him away and take the hose from his shoulder. The Soldier turns to Luis.

"Please go with Win and finish hooking up the pumps and fire hoses," the brunette directs. He leans close to the smaller man as he puts the hose on his shoulder. "Do not let anyone know you have their words," he whispers, "or you will be in danger."

Luis nods, eyes going a bit big, and hurries to do as he has been asked.

Buck leads Steve away, back towards their shanty. "You were going to use Red to kill them. Do not deny it. I could _feel_ it." 

"Before they could kill you and the others," Steve rasps, arms crossed firmly over his chest.

"That is not who you are. It is not who I would want you to become to protect me." Buck squeezes his shoulder gently. 

**Maybe the sweet piece doesn't know us like he thinks he does. Steve Rogers believes in _do unto them as they did onto you,_ except worse so they never do it again. Maybe some _do unto them before they can do onto you_ is in order.**

"Fury is bluffing. He has nothing," the Soldier continues.

"You don't know that!" 

"We will handle him when the time comes we are certain he is a threat and not before," the Soldier offers calmly. "This place requires leadership to defeat Zola. The people follow him. They respect him."

**Motherfucker better avoid suitcases just the same.**

"They don't know him like I do. By the time you're sure he's moving against you it's too late!" Steve stops abruptly and turns to him. "I can't lose you." 

"I told you before, no one will take me from you, little mechanic," Buck promises, cupping the blonde's face with both hands and leaning down to kiss him softly. 

Steve puts his hands over Buck's, kisses him back a bit harder. 

**Awwww yeah! Bed? Bed.**

The mechanic pushes the stab of heat that comes with the voice's words away before the feeling can spill over the bond. They've both been drawn back from it, but it flares stronger when they touch, especially affectionately. He's tried to be more mindful of not just diving into sex. 

"I have a surprise for you," the Soldier offers.

**Is it in his pants?**

"Is it in your pants?" the blond quips, a bit annoyed the question slipped out.

**Then let's slip it in!**

"It is not on me. It is in our dresser," Buck responds, oblivious to the joke. 

Once inside, he guides Steve carefully to sit on the edge of the bed, kisses the top of his head gently and walks to the chest of drawers. He comes back with two identical cell phones, each plugged into a battery pack, and sits down next to the blonde on the edge of the mattress. The charging banks are removed and placed on the headboard.

"I found these in one of the crates the freed took from the armory. There was a large quantity of them in new packages. Of course there is no service. Perhaps the Xers intended to set up some manner of communication network with them." 

"How did you manage to get the battery packs charged and these back here? I've barely been away from you five minutes since we got back and you would have needed to make multiple trips to plug them in, retrieve them and hide them."

"I am very fast," Buck says with a dazzling, mischievous smile that makes Steve melt.

**I like fast,** the bullheaded voice says lustily. 

"There are standard chargers as well, for when you have time to wait with it at a power source," the brunette continues. 

"I don't understand. If we can't call each other on them, what are they for?" the blonde queries, watching the Soldier turn on one of the units and then hand it to him.

"I read the manual," Buck states, powering up the second one. "In addition to taking and storing pictures and video, it has an application to record audio. There is also a notepad function. In the future, we can input pictures, writing, and recordings for each other at our leisure, then swap the phones when we have to be separated."

"Separated?" Steve half-whispers turning abruptly to look up at the bigger man.

"Yes. This way, while we are apart for work or runs, you can see and hear whatever I put into the device for you and I can do the same." 

"Why are you..." The blonde's voice cracks a bit. "Why are you showing me this now? The battle hasn't even started and you're talking about how we'll handle normal life after." 

Buck shows him the application screen, opens the audio feature and sets it to record. 

"Because I believe we will have a future together. Because in that future I believe we will make sacrifices to help this community that will sometimes keep us apart, usually only for hours, but sometimes for days or weeks. Because I will need you with me in some way when that happens." He taps the screen to stop the recording, then again to play it back.

Steve's brows furrow as he listens - even with the phone resting on the Soldier's lap the playback is excellent. With his eyes closed he could believe Buck was speaking. They had come so far with technology before the collapse and this is a high end phone - the unit is ultra thin and light and he can tell the materials are sturdy. He copies what he saw on his own phone, pushes record and speaks. 

"I don't wanna ever be apart from you for long. I feel like a bit of my soul is missing from my body when you're not around." He tries to sound playful, but his very real despair at the thought bleeds through. 

Steve ends the recording, plays it back and watches Buck smile, clearly touched. The mechanic can't resist opening up to their bond more. The flood of affection from the bigger man envelopes him in warmth - he grips the front of the Soldier's vest and leans him down for a kiss, then rests their foreheads together. 

"You must hide when Zola comes. He will try to capture you, to use you against me," Buck says softly. "I know it is not your way to stay out of a fight, but he must not find you." 

"They won't get past the wall. We won't let them." Steve's fingers curl tighter into the Soldier's vest.

"If they breach the wall, you will run. You will hide. Promise me," Buck whispers roughly, a hand sliding into the smaller man's hair. 

"Only if you promise you won't surrender. Even if they get me or Luis or any of our friends. You fight Zola no matter what. Stop him from getting the serums." 

Buck lets out a long sigh. They've been here before and it is easier for him to accept the reality of the situation, no matter how much he does not want to. "I promise."

"Then I'll hide. If they get in. I promise." 

Buck leans back, opens the camera application and switches to video, then hands it to Steve. "Push the record button," he requests and the blonde complies.

When he hears the beep, the Soldier signs I love you, an ASL phrase the blonde has seen him do before. When Buck drops his hands, the mechanic stops recording. The brunette takes the phone and silences the effects noises, so when he clicks the application icon then presses play on the video, there's no little beeps. He shows Steve the video - the quality is excellent, every detail of his face, hair, even his metallic arm, is crystal clear.

"The phone will not make any noise now. If we are separated, if you are hiding, you can play this without alerting anyone. It will remind you I want you to stay out of sight, safe, that I will do whatever it takes to survive and to return to you." He pauses, and Steve can _feel_ he doesn't want to say the words he's mulling over, how deeply sad they make him. "Know that I believe we can win, that we will have many more years together. But...if I do not survive, you will have this to remember me. To remember how much I love you. And how much I want you to go on. To find purpose, happiness, as you have given me." 

Tears fall down both their cheeks in unison as a symphony of emotions plays between them. Steve wants to argue - that Buck won't die, can't die, that if he does he'll die with him, figuratively if not literally - but he can't muster it. Even the bullheaded voice is silent in the face of the reality that they don't know what's coming. If the Soldier meets his end it should be believing Steve will make something of the time he has left. 

The mechanic just nods, looking at his lap. 

"I have one more request, before we go to prepare for their arrival," the Soldier says softly, taking the phone from Steve and laying it and the other on the headboard.

"Anything," the blonde responds, gazing up into Buck's eyes as the bigger man turns back to face him - they are periwinkle.

"Fuck me," Buck whispers in his ear. 

When the mechanic closes the distance between them and presses their lips together, what flows over the bond isn't the usual rush of urgent heat - it's something beautiful that wraps around Steve like warm silk and pulls him effortlessly in. A shiver goes through both of them as the sensation rolls between them on a feedback loop, growing stronger and more immersive. The mechanic's clever fingers make quick work of Buck's vest, his weapon harnesses, belt, fly. 

He has the Soldier spread out naked on the bed before he's even removed his own shoes, the bigger man respectfully keeping his hands above Steve's hips, outside his clothes. Steve slides off the bed to remove his apparel and footwear. Buck watches him with the same intensity as the first time he had been naked in front of him, keeps his hands still the same as well, even though he's hard. The blonde grins, takes the phone with the video of Buck off the headboard. 

"You're so beautiful," the blonde says softly, and snaps a photo of the Soldier sprawled across the bed. "I think..." Steve moves a bit, takes another from a different angle as Buck's cheeks color at the attention, "that I'll want these to look at when you're on a run and I'm in bed alone." 

It sounds tasteless, referencing spank material at a time like this, but the playfulness raises their spirits - they both know what he's saying. _This is for the future. We will both have a future. _ Buck is pleased - he follows suit, slowly picks up the other phone as Steve lowers his. 

"May I?" 

"Why don't you take a video instead?" the blonde offers in a sultry tone, slowly putting his phone back on the headboard. "I know how much you like to watch."

He feels a hot spike over their bond at the direction as the Soldier points the phone at him. Steve makes a display of licking his hand, trails it slowly down his body, fingertips lightly grazing his pulse as his head tilts to the side. He leaves his neck bent, teasing and exposed. Buck licks his lips, swallows hard.

The mechanic's hand slides lower, stops to rub a slick pad over his nipple until it's a hard pebble then squeezes it tight between his thumb and forefinger. A groan escapes him at the perfect pressure and he sees Buck's cock twitch. The Soldier is watching him intently, mouth hanging a bit open, brows drawn slightly in and up. Steve's hand slides lower, nails trailing lightly over the runner of sandy hair down his lower belly. 

"Touch yourself with me," he instructs softly, wet hand wrapping around himself. 

The Soldier follows suit, starts stroking his length in time with the mechanic's motions, the situation giving a nod to their older sexual encounters.

"Get your hand wet," Steve says low and breathy.

Buck complies, spreading thick saliva on his flesh hand with his lavender tongue then returning to work himself. His mouth opens wider, but he keeps himself quiet as his eyes momentarily squeeze shut - he's still filming and must want this video to feature only Steve's noises. The blonde whimpers at that, eyes flicking between the camera lense, the Soldier's own and the big, pale gray hand gliding over his dark shaft. 

"Put your legs off the bed," the blonde directs. "Spread them wider," he adds after Buck obeys, the Soldier propped up on his elbows, feet on the floor, bent knees far apart. "You look so good like that," Steve purrs working himself faster. "Open yourself for me." 

It takes the Soldier a moment to realize what he means - they're both hazy with a combination of each other's pleasure and their own - but then he sucks several fingers into his mouth and slides them low. 

"Rub yourself first. The way you like me to do it," Steve whispers, stopping his motion to squeeze the base of his cock, other hand moving to pinch his so far untouched nipple.

Buck complies, can't help the little breath that bursts out of him. It isn't long before Steve can see his hole glistening, can _feel_ his desire to be entered. 

"Penetrate yourself with a finger, nice and slow," the blonde instructs, starting to move his hand at an incredibly leisurely pace along his own length to emphasize his point. 

The Soldier eagerly does as he's told. It isn't long before Steve says "another," prompting Buck to put in a second digit, then a minute later repeats the word. He steps forward, spits in his hand and slicks himself with it while he grips the wrist of the arm Buck is holding the phone with, directs it up to Steve's face then slowly down his body to his hard cock. The Soldier's eyes go from the blonde's form in real life to it blown up on the phone. Steve can feel his want like a wildfire. 

"Are you ready for me?" he queries, soft and husky - the Soldier nods, jaw slack, and removes his hand.

The mechanic shuffles forward, directs himself with one hand while he pulls Buck's that holds the phone forward and angles it; the Soldier can now see Steve's head pressing against his entrance on the screen. The blonde smiles as Buck's eyes widen, and he observes the bigger man watch the dome enter him. Buck trembles, mouth working, overwhelmed with the feel of being spread open as he actually _sees it_ happening. The pleasure over the bond is sharp, intense - he can feel the Soldier will finish quickly like this. Buck is incredibly worked up and the angle makes Steve's hardness slide over his sensitive spot. 

The blonde eases in and out of him smoothly, groaning at the wet, hot squeeze around him. The Soldier pants and alternates staring into the mechanic's eyes, which never leave his, and watching his rim stretching around Steve's thick cock on the phone. The mechanic rolls his hips slow and steady, gradually pushing in deeper and pulling out less. He takes his hand from Buck's and grips the bigger man's hips, pulling the Soldier lightly forward each time he fills him. 

The bigger man's face looks _desparate_, and Steve can feel Buck's orgasm rising like a massive ocean wave. The mechanic takes the phone from the Soldier's trembling hand, sets it up against a book on the headboard so it can see them both, then returns to clutching at him. Steve is filling the bigger man as deep as he can, slow and steady, only pulling out a bit before firmly pushing forward, sac slapping against the bottom of the Soldier's cheeks with each thrust in. It makes the wave rise higher, rush the shore faster. The pleasure is incredible coupled with Steve's own, Buck clamped down around him, writhing in front of him. An intense stream of emotions and sensations runs constantly between them until nothing else exists - not the phone, the shanty, the town, the world. 

There is only them, together. 

"Steve! Steve! Steve!" streams out of Buck; he sounds almost afraid of how powerful his impending release is.

"I've got you sweetheart. I've got you," the mechanic whispers, folding himself forward, urging Buck to wrap his arms around the blonde's smaller frame. "I love you. I'm right here with you. You can let go."

The Soldier leans up enough to account for the difference in their height, and the second their lips seal together they both finish. It's like they're one person, one single pulsing mass of ecstasy. The feeling transcends the physical or mental - it's spiritual for lack of a better description. If Steve had to explain what the experience felt like, he would simply say _salvation_. As they slowly return to reality, the blonde prays to whoever listens for them to be saved. Be saved or die together.


	109. Preparation H(awkeye)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tries to rise to the occasion but Steve and Win may get laid low.

Steve begrudgingly separates from Buck to finalize work on the pumps and have the hoses tested out. Fire is by far their biggest concern. Not only are many of the dwellings little more than two-by-four skeletons covered in sheet metal or plywood, but the surviving real buildings are ancient and will go up like tinder boxes, choking the landscape with smoke. Claptrap has a dozen former firemen residing there, most from small volunteer companies in little towns dotting the two hundred miles around the settlement, but there are former full-timers as well from big cities like Atlanta and Tampa - the mechanic sets off to round them up. 

They'd stripped the fire hoses from half the floors of the hotel along with the axes and water valves - with the coupling welds Win was able to make between hoses they now have multiple connected to make three long enough to reach half the settlement. One is attached to each of the new pumps and the most experienced firemen are put on hose duty. The rest are given extinguishers or fire suppression packs from the public stores to monitor areas the water won't reach. An axe and shovel crew of teenagers are assigned as well to chop and bury anything still smouldering. 

Nick has Jasper monitoring supply distribution and getting them their gear, along with beginning weapons distribution, were among his first tasks. The bespectacled man had spent hundreds of hours over the last few years cataloguing everything that came in and out of public stores and he could see no reason to stop now - they might survive, after all and he couldn't have people just trying to snag what they could to run with or hoard. Every resource needed to be used for the good of the settlement now more than ever. 

"This won't be Claptrap if _the Claptrap_ is cinders," Vic insists, trying to beg an extinguisher. 

"Fine, but you get one of the younger barbacks to stay with the building. I need you on the wall with everyone else who's a good shot," Sitwell says as he marks the pub owner's name next to an extinguisher on his list. 

"And where will you be, Four Eyes?" the barman says with some contempt.

"Right there next to you, when the time comes." Sitwell tilts his head to his large rifle, hung from a hook on the wall behind him. 

Suddenly Win jumps on Vic's broad back. He makes a startled sound, but bursts into laughter when he sees the familiar skinny arms dangle across his chest. The welder has beaten him at poker more times than he can count - he's stopped even giving her drink chips because her supply would already outlast both of them if they lived to be a hundred. Whatever she asks for at the bar she just gets and free breakfast too when she bothers.

"Vic-vic, you should watch your tone. Jasper is a very good shot," she quips, resting her chin on the big man's shoulder.

"Winnie, girl, what kinds of trouble did y'all get up to on the road? Bringing armies back here and shit," he says with a smirk.

"Coming anyway. Only a matter of time," she offers sliding down. "We made a big dent though. Got a lot of them. And their original leader."

"I hear tell _Greta and Steve_ led an assault on their headquarters, those badass motherfuckers. Where is the ol'broad? I got a growler put aside for her to celebrate when this is all over." Vic smiles broadly, but Win frowns and says nothing.

"She didn't make it," Sitwell offers, a veneer of indifference stretched over the undercurrent of disappointment. 

"I'm sorry, girl," the barman offers, giving Win a hug - he is one of a very few allowed such a privilege - before he leaves with his prize. 

Win has her small team of teen welders and Luis in tow, visible just outside. "Need one of those for each," the welder informs Sitwell, hooking her thumb after Vic through the doorway.

"What for?" Jasper demands. 

"Soldier duty," she offers. 

The kids assigned to her were universally terrible with a gun or a bow, and probably too young for even Fury to think they should be shooting anyone. But they were used to heat and sparks, had protective equipment from welding and could all haul a cylinder tank. None of them had families, no one to hide them or beg for their safety to be assured, and they'd come to her offering to help however they could. After they got used to some discipline when they'd first been assigned to her, they all took orders fairly well, which tied into the other part of Win's plan. She leans close to Jasper, conspiratorial. 

"I know you have better communication equipment. Operative stuff. Need coms for Soldiers, kids and Luis," the welder states. She's even quieter when she speaks again. "He gets up high to watch, helps direct Soldiers, tells kids where to go if one is on fire. The rest of the time, kids lay low."

"And why is the _hairdresser_ bossing anyone around?" Jasper quips. 

"Buck and me busy." She raises an eyebrow and adds, "Shooting people. You saw how well Luis handle things at the Xer town." 

Jasper sighs - he can tell she's less than thrilled about putting the teens or Luis in harm's way as her English slips a bit when she's really stressed (just like his grandmother's used to). Her face is a mask of confidence though and he can't disagree it's a solid plan, especially if something were to happen to Buck or the Xers were to get inside. The necessary equipment is handed over, along with a pair of fancy binoculars that work very similarly to Clint's goggles - Luis can use them from his vantage point to keep track of the Soldiers' movements. 

The archer isn't far behind to the supply building. Jasper - eventually intrigued with his ideas, even though they sound painfully juvenile at first - helps him get supplies together for a few special projects. Clint has his bow battalion feathering and heading arrows, loading quivers and testing bows. He let's out a loud whistle when he joins them with Steve to get his troops' attention. He uses different whistles as commands during group practice - they're harder to mishear than words and he knows the fighting will get loud. It always does.

"If we're lucky, there'll be no close combat. But if we're not, you're going to need to be careful with your shots. Most of these fucks wear body armor or flak vests, so ignore your urge to go for the core, even though it's a bigger target." He grabs Steve by the wrist and pulls him in front of the crowd. "Best shots to incapacitate or kill quickly. The eyes," he says as he motions to the blonde's with two fingers. "The temple," he continues, turning the mechanic as the smaller man huffs with mild annoyance, pointing to the spots in question. "The arteries in the neck." Clint's fingertips sit to either side of Steve's windpipe, "and the major artery in each thigh." 

Clint pokes a thick finger over the blonde's femeral artery and Steve can't help but think about Buck's mouth clamped there the first time he let the Soldier please him. He shivers. He's pulled from his thoughts by one of the troops raising a hand. 

"Sir, I..." 

"I've told you guys. You don't need to call me sir. I'm not military and never was. Just call me Clint. Or Barton. Or hemerrhoid." The archer grins and a few of his trainees chuckle. 

"You're military now, hemerrhoid," Steve says softly, without malice. "You're _leading them into battle_." 

"Fuck, Stevie," the archer whispers harshly. "Don't remind me."

"Clint, a lot of us aren't...Well we're not soldiers," the man continues.

"Neither am I," the archer counters.

"But you're _good_ at killing."

"That's not something I wanted, believe me. But when friends' and family's lives are on the line, the community is at risk, I do what I gotta do. And all of you will too."

"Why shouldn't we just run?" the man queries. 

"Shut up, coward!" someone responds and others murmur similar insults. Some of the others agree with him and arguing begins.

"Motivational speech time?" Steve offers quietly, smirking. 

Clint sighs as he side-eyes the blonde, and then addresses the crowd. "He's right to be afraid. They have a real army with more trained soldiers and more weapons. But they don't have our advantages." 

He notches an arrow and spins, firing a perfect bullseye. 

"We have the wall and the high ground and we know the terrain surrounding it," he continues.

Clint gestures to one of the seated trainees. After a second's hesitation, they get up and shoot, hitting the edge of the bull's eye. 

"We have a good idea of what's coming, but they don't know what's waiting for them." 

He points at another - they don't hit the center, but they get a solid shot. 

"We have Buck and the others like him," Clint offers, gesturing to a woman, who hits the middle dead on. 

"I know a lot of you have seen what they can do and they will defend this place no matter what, but even as strong as they are they can't do it alone." 

He gestures to a young guy, nervous and sweating. The kid is shaky when he stands, but Clint watches him control his breathing the way the archer had taught them and the kid makes the shot flawlessly. 

"Every last person here who is able will have a job to do to keep this place safe and our troops going. _This_ is our job. It's very simple. Shoot arrows into the enemy."

He points. Another fires. 

"It's fallen to us because _we're the best at it_." 

Point. Fire.

"Every single person here I trained and assessed myself and you're all more than capable." 

Point. Fire.

"We've sweated and bled for this place and no wanna be warlord jagoff is gonna take it from us." 

Clint points to the man who originally spoke. He rises, buries an arrow in the bull's eye flush with Clint's. The archer gives the man a pleased nod. He notices Nat in the background, arms crossed and leaning on a wooden fence at the edge of the range like she's been there listening for a while. The assassin is genuinely, openly smiling. She gives him a mock salute and turns to go. 

"Okay!" Clint yells, opening a large crate from the supply building. "Now for the fun stuff..." 

Steve catches up with Nat and follows her to the wall, Win joining them on their way. 

"Absolutely not," Fury barks, pointing at the town below from the walking area built atop the glass block, another four feet of wall rising up from it. "You'll need to put this place the fuck back together after. You and Win are banned from wall duty." 

The welder calls him several colorful expletives in Cantonese, but Steve grabs her arm. "It's fine, Win. We should probably keep an eye on the pumps and whatnot." 

He looks far down the walkway to Buck, assisting in preparations. The Soldier notices him, partially pulls out his phone quickly with a smile and puts it back. Steve does the same with his own, grinning. He prays silently it isn't the last time they see each other alive. 

Win grabs Nat by the waist. "Protect those nice titties," she instructs, trying to hide her fear with humor, and kisses the redhead hard, Nick Fury's staring eye be damned. Nat even begrudgingly accepts a hug from Steve.

"Try not to get kidnapped this time," she jests, ruffling his hair.

Once they've reached the ground, the welder growls, "this bullshit! We should have fought him!" 

"I've got an idea about how we can be useful. One he won't like. Where's Luis? It'll be dark soon and we need to get everything ready before then."


	110. Joy division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola contemplates his plans.

If Arnim Zola had any inkling of what being this creature was like, he would have taken the serum long ago, Brock Rumlow's anger be damned. 

The doctor had been slowly gathering and hiding the ingredients and equipment necessary to make another batch in various places around the Xer settlement, waiting for the day to come that Brock was out of the picture or incapacitated enough to deal with. He knew that the ex-operative would be impossible to defeat on his own, even equally enhanced, as Zola was not trained in any form of combat. It had been wise to wait - from reports it had taken four Winter Soldiers to kill Rumlow. 

It was smart of them to take the head and burn the body. Even for something like Rumlow there was no coming back from that. His DNA survived though, in the marrow, easily extracted after using a diamond drill bit on the bones. While Brock's generals were busy arguing amongst themselves over who would take control, all just assuming the doctor would fall in line with their decisions and paying him no mind, Zola busied himself mixing and altering the formula to include this new genetic material.

The resulting creature he became was bigger than his natural body, taking on some of Brock's height and muscle mass through the gene editing. More importantly, he gave off phermones and other cues similar enough to Rumlow's that the drinkers instantly showed him loyalty. It took practice to send them messages telepathically, but once he got a feel for it he was hive queen and they were his good worker bees, bustling about the settlement doing his bidding (including excavating his lab) while he fed on a dozen blood bags from the medical facility. 

The generals were less than enthused when Zola appeared in the middle of their lengthy negotiations, gray and scarred from the lab explosion but still recognizable. He'd popped the lenses from his spectacles and put the frames back on - he no longer needed the assist but it felt wrong not to wear them. His semi-combover of dishwater blonde hair remained but he knows from experience with the Soldiers his locks will probably grow in darker later. His eyes are still blue, though an unearthly shade shot through with flecks of silver that give them a metallic sheen. 

A big, loud ex-ops refuses his claim to leadership and Arnim has a dozen drinkers swarming and stabbing him in the blink of an eye. They don't kill him though - Zola buries his teeth in him and sucks him down slowly and painfully while he struggles so the others can watch. God, it's _good_. The big man's boots thunk uselessly against the floor as he gurgles out pleas. The doctor only pins him tighter, pulls from him deeper. He tastes like rich dark chocolate and spices and nuts and worn leather. The intense heat of his blood and the warmth of his body feel amazing. 

The rest are silent and terrified when he finishes. He kills another just for the enjoyment of it - a dumb one Brock had only kept around for his unerring loyalty - while his minions hold the rest at gunpoint. This one is smoked meat, fresh tobacco, red wine. He'd marveled when the Soldiers had developed an extra set of taste buds, but he'd never expected them to function like this. They couldn't ask the Soldiers to describe the flavor of blood - without memories of their past diet and consuming only the gruel that met their caloric, nutrient and protein needs they didn't _know_ how to comparatively describe flavors. 

There's no more disagreement amongst the generals after that. Rumlow was Crossbones; now Zola is Crossbones. Simple. They'll put all resources towards recovery of the crate and the Winter Soldiers. The little blonde, Steve Rogers, or any of his friends caught on surveillance or seen by witnesses in the Xer camp were to be captured and used as bargaining chips to obtain their goals. 

The Followers of Crossbones (simply Followers for short), as the soldiers called themselves, had found Phil Coulson and Maria Hill dead during the recons Zola immediately ordered. They were Fury's most trusted people. The doctor very much doubted the one eyed man would reveal the asset's location to anyone else, not even the former Red Room assassin turned Special Operative Natalia Romanova - aka Natasha Romanov, aka a hundred other aliases over decades of field work - despite her long history with the man.

Her DNA had been considered when they did the genetic upgrades to the Soldiers. She had perfect test scores. Too perfect. It was clear she had manipulated the psychological evaluation and for that he was told to remove her from the running. Her handlers felt she was disloyal, sociopathic. It had not deterred him from fixating on her. Quite the opposite. He considered now that she would be the perfect queen for his new empire. Brains. Beauty. Brutality. 

Perhaps if she proved herself, he'd even give her some of the blue serum. Eventually. Not enough to be as powerful as him, but nearly so. Only he understood how to adjust the administering devices for a smaller dose - he had designed them after all, and with the best materials his pilfered government budget could afford him. He didn't need love from her, or even sex if she were unwilling, just loyalty. Understanding. Companionship. 

What use was it to be a god if it meant spending eternity alone? And he would be godlike after the blue serum. 

The most flawless version of himself. Perhaps someone even such a powerful, gorgeous woman would desire. Stronger even than the Soldiers, capable of healing and moving just as quickly as them, without the deformity of their appearance (or even his own possibly), without the animal distraction or weakness of their need. A golden haired, blue eyed god, fair-skinned (without a need for melanin to function since he would no longer ever burn in the sun), as his childhood heroes had envisioned the ideal man. Of course he realized most Nazi science and ideology was bunk, especially regarding race, but he was inspired by their ultimate goal - genetic perfection at any cost. 

The creature he is now is not his goal anymore than it was Rumlow's - it is a stopgap on the way to better things. A necessary sickness to be cured. If only he'd been unafraid before, had just taken the blue serum when he created it, so much could have been avoided. Brock was his patsy to a degree, easy enough to manipulate and use as a crude tool. He had lied to the man about the vials, indicated he would need to do a process on the syringe portion to make it functional for injection, assuming he would then just inject himself with both blue tubes and destroy Rumlow after. He is almost certain the blue serum will obliterate this current genetic infection - he had successfully tested it on samples of the Soldiers' tissues. They were made with a far superior, heartier formula than what he was now, one he had firmly believed when he created it could not be reversed, but it had worked. 

That said, for the moment, he's rather enjoying the perks of being this creature. 

He drains several of the remaining slaves (poor bastards - they were too injured in the attack to be saved), reveling in their taste. He drains a large three-stripe as well - they had thought it wise to spend time they were supposed to be following his orders trying to rape one of the drinkers - and Zola enjoys how helpless they are against the immense strength he now possesses. It occurrs to him he's more than capable of forcing himself on even the strongest among them as he kills the behemoth. The doctor had always turned down Rumlow's offers of supplying "company," which of course meant a young woman forced through act or coercion - he was many things, but neither a rapist nor a man who wanted to lay with someone who did not want him were among them. 

When he thinks about Natasha again later, alone, his generals and foot soldiers alike taking stock of the damage and their supplies, he feels a spike of want. The nearby drinkers seem to feel it too - they come to him, offer, plead even, men and women of all shapes, sizes, ages. Rumlow had his harem of Steves and never took what they offered; he liked to force, not be given. Now they want Arnim, truly want him to their cores, and he senses that allowing them to please him would be akin to granting them holy communion. Zola lets them, even the women he finds unattractive, even the men. He falls in line with what would be considered heterosexual, but he knows such behavior occurs on a spectrum, can be fluid - he has no social, cultural or personal qualms with same sex behavior and is staunchly atheist. 

If anything, he's curious to see how many he can make orgasm with this new body before his penis finally succumbs to either disinterest or his own release. He's only half paying attention to most as they take him in their hands, or mouths or bodies. Zola leans back - now stripped naked by the first to approach him - on the sofa in his private quarters, contemplating his next moves as they attempt to bring him to completion. He orders his generals over a transponder (and yes, they're his - his spies confirm their fear and continued lust for power he allowed them to maintain make them so) to radio all Followers away from camp to pursue the fleeing Claptrappers as a rather attractive younger man climbs on him. 

Zola considers the young man, as he sinks down and starts to move, with clinical interest - watches his muscles work, his face contort in pleasure. He puts the transponder down and folds his hands behind his head leisurely. His tight hole, pre-slicked with something, feels good around him though he can't say the sight of his member is doing anything. Zola enjoyed anal sex with women in the past and it feels the same, though this person seems to like it a lot more; maybe it's his seemingly unflaggable, rock hard erection against the man's prostate or maybe the feed bond. Either way, he's certain on his best day he's never pleased anyone else this well and he does enjoy that, take pride in it. 

The young man has a lot of stamina - maybe it's the duration of his never-slowing movement or maybe it's the younger man's increasingly loud moans, but the doctor finds himself finally close. He puts his hands on the younger man's hips, encouraging him to move a certain way, and leans forward a bit to better observe. The delicious smell of him and the flicker of his pulse are distracting and the young man notices, bends his head to the side, offering. Out of curiosity, the doctor bites him. The young man orgasms immediately on his belly and clamps down on him. The doctor finishes in him with the softest noise, teeth still buried. Zola drinks a little more, which the man seems to enjoy, then releases him. He doesn't kill useful people, even delicious ones, and it would be especially bad manners after sex.

The doctor wonders if any of this sort of behavior will remain as the younger man licks Zola clean of his spend and _thanks him_ profusely for the fresh fang marks. The others seem jealous as he cleans the blackish load leaking from his fit body, whether it is because he bit him or finished in him he doesn't know. At least he is fairly certain he and any creature like him are sterile - he would not risk this with women otherwise, regardless of their begging. Once he's no longer this creature, will the drinkers return to their usual mental states or just be rudderless without anyone whispering in their minds? Or will their bond to him linger? They're certainly helpful and he's already feeling a bit protective of them, of their blind infatuation for him. 

He isn't surprised or really even angered when the Winter Soldiers and their companions evade capture. He's going to Claptrap either way. The asset is likely there or nearby and Nick Fury is probably the only person left who knows its location. He wants Jasper Sitwell right next to the one eyed man, groveling on their knees as he burns their silly little junktown. Bald bastards. 

Both had undermined his work, caused more pressure and oversight from above. The latter's reports in particular were instrumental to the decision to put the informant in place. The informant whose intel ultimately got Zola's unsanctioned serums reported and seized. He would enjoy every minute of extracting information from them, of drinking their friends, and after he had the serum - after they witness the glory of his metamorphosis - he would keep them as pets to see his rise to supremacy over this continent. 

It only takes a few days to organize and vacate the city, to set his forces to their tasks. He is not a military man, but after so many years working with the Soldiers and reviewing their training and operations data he has developed a keen mind for strategy. The experience also allows him to anticipate what the Soldiers will do, though the one that he's told they call "Buck" - the sentient one - could have learned a few new tricks. The generals are largely experienced, useful. He knows from Brock's boasting who is most capable and he accepts their input graciously.

He decides it's for the best as well that it's the difficult cluster of Soldiers who survived because he'll enjoy outmaneuvering them, defeating them, even more. Especially the redheaded one, that mischievous bastard. Zola only prays they don't have that one's limiter turned down too much. He assumes that they would have retrieved those instructions along with their words from the computer system in the facility, before they had bombed it into oblivion with the explosives in the Soldiers-access-only lockers there. They had an ops hacking device and a Valkyrie unit with them (the corpse of which they'd taken from Crossbones' city), when they entered the facility based on the surviving surveillance footage - it's likely they had taken all the data and he'd be wanting that as well. 

He should have left the giant redheaded corpse dead longer before the procedure, ensured maximum neurological degradation. All of them really from the Final Cluster (so-called because they were last to the program, but also because the original guards had joked that the difficult-to-control group's behavior would put an end to the project; ultimately they were somewhat right). But he had been rushed to get those final subjects after their original plans had fallen through, hurrying to make a deadline for some pencil pusher above him so they could pat themselves on the back to their superiors that their HYDRA (Human Youth Division - Recombinant Advancement) project was moving along, unlike many of the others. Some of them didn't see fruition for decades and the weapons they developed were more stable but significantly less powerful, something far closer to human. 

Only certain people met the criteria approved for the Winter Soldier program. Best to start with the closest to genetically perfect, the most physically hearty, with relevant training. And dead. Dead was important. Specifically, not made dead by inappropriate means. Even as illicit as the project was, those above Zola would not okay experimenting on the living with the WS serum nor intentionally killing viable candidates to use them. Thus the program to scour morgues had been developed. 

They had largely pulled corpses from the ranks of the military dead or special operatives terminated on missions. If the program had started a decade earlier, they would have had endless fodder from the Vietnam conflict to revive - Zola had seen a film about something very like this in the 1990s well after the Winter Soldier project commenced and found it quite amusing. It had made sense to his superiors at the beginning to jump into procuring quality dead with both feet. They could have used any corpses for phase one, but some frumpy office worker suffering from diabetes would never make as impressive of an end result as the slabs of super healthy, combat trained muscle they had brought him. 

Why waste the money reanimating stiffs who would make inferior Soldiers? Go right for quality. Besides, a long-term goal of the program was to be able to en masse reanimate those with useful physicality and skills rather than wasting all those fight-ready bodies. Getting the structures in place right away to find candidates was only logical. Of course when the project wasn't approved to make more Soldiers, a lot of quality stored corpses had to be disposed of. 

If it had been a different cluster of Winter Soldiers that survived, Zola may have been tempted to try rehabilitation on the chipless one and - if he could obtain their words - puppet the others. But he can't take any risk they'll become fully autonomous, especially the redheaded one. Destroying them, even those with working limiters now that he sees how easily the hardware can be damaged beyond functioning, is the safest option. They had tried to install shielding for the neural nets, but the creatures' bodies had kept forcing the large pieces of metal out as a foreign object the same way it would a bullet or broken off blade tip. Multiple materials were tested for the net itself before permanent implantation was successful. 

Speaking of rejection, the procedure to get 23 to bond with the metal arm had been amongst Zola's most challenging work and one of his personal triumphs. He looks forward to seeing it in action. The doctor respects the creature it's attached to - all it's done since escaping, even developing into enough of a person to get a human to fall in love with it (what a coincidence that human was the object of Rumlow's obsession - probably anyone seemed better than him). Ultimately though, probably no one on earth will want Zola dead more than 23 and that means it must be eliminated. Perhaps he will keep the hollow limb as a trophy after the crate is opened and he burns the rest of this _Buck_ to ash.


	111. Missing persons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few key players are absent from the preparations.

Fury and Buck are finally together again atop the wall, reviewing their preparations. _Comparing notes,_ Nick had called it. Note was one of the words that had often confused the Soldier in the past and he had to parse the context carefully. Of all the languages he knew, English often seemed so very stupid - the same word could mean so many unrelated things. 

Notes could be...

...the specific sounds made by a musical instrument or the symbols that indicated those sounds, such as on sheet music. 

One could read a note, then play the note. Luis had taught him this - the green-eyed man played several instruments and could memorize sheet music with one look. 

He feels a stab of fear thinking about Luis, about the intense burden he has shouldered controlling the Soldiers, conducting the symphony of their actions. 

...individual smells that make up a scent. For instance, Steve's scent often had notes of peaches and clove.

He had learned this use from Natasha when she had helped him choose a cologne for date night from the Green Place wares. She had apparently chosen wisely since Buck had, as Clint would say, gotten boned after. 

Clint is always wearing cologne. Buck looks down the wall at him, impressed with how much the usually distractable man has stepped up in commanding the other archers, busy now giving direction and checking equipment. At least Buck will be near if he is in danger. He seems to get himself shot a lot. How did he survive before Buck was around to heal him? Or perhaps Buck being around had put him in more situations to get shot at.

...an informal written recording of information, either for personal use or to convey information to someone else. 

Steve had explained that use to him. The blonde was constantly making notes for himself of ideas, as well as occasionally leaving correspondence for the Soldier, such as when he'd snuck out of the bed the morning after Buck had first slept there with him. He had read the note before he touched himself in what would become their bed. He cannot imagine now how he was so naive about sex, so clueless about his real feelings towards the little mechanic. 

Steve is very desirable.

The memory of that first night laying near each other, of his gentle touch to the little mechanic's arm and the small smile that had blossomed on the blonde's face, makes something twist in the Soldier. Buck clutches the phone over the fabric of his pants' cargo pocket it rests in, reminds himself to be careful, not to crush it. In addition to the explicit video, on it are several clothed pictures of Steve and a note the smaller man had saved with the notepad feature - the Soldier had promised not to read it until after the fighting was over. 

At least the little mechanic will not be on the front line of the assault, like Clint, Nat and some of his other friends. But it pains Buck to not have him close, especially when Steve seems to be intentionally pulled back from their bond, perhaps to avoid distracting the Soldier from his duties. 

Steve is very thoughtful.

But it is like the blonde had said - Buck feels like a part of himself is missing when the other is not near. A piece of his _soul_, something he has only a vague concept of. If people indeed have them, does something like him possess one? He is a person but he is not human. 

Certainly by the standards of some belief structures, his soul deserved to go to the bad place. The place of eternal fire. Could there be anything worse? An eternity of burning. Eternity without Steve, who certainly would go to the good place. Eternity without his friends, though Clint had made allusion to ending up in the bad place himself more than once. 

Buck's thoughts turn to Gurminder and their discussion about his religion, Hinduism, and belief in reincarnation. The psychiatrist is at the ready at the clinic, waiting to assist Doctor Banner with his limited medical knowledge. Buck warmed to the idea of reincarnation much more easily - after all, this body had already died and been reborn into something, someone, else so it felt reasonable enough. Trying again and again until you got it right, learning more each time, appealed to him far more than getting one chance and then being punished when you did not measure up. That was the way of the people in the facility - a single mistake led to swift, brutal punishment.

Then again, Buck had considered perhaps he would be a monster of some kind in every iteration of himself. Maybe he would never escape the cycle of death and rebirth, never be worthy. It struck the Soldier now that he had known Steve in a past life, of sorts. Some part of him was Jack and Jack had loved Steve, protected Steve, died for Steve (rose again for Steve, really). Perhaps even if Buck died today some other form of him would be looking after the little mechanic in the future. Being reborn again and again, even in a lab, would be worth it then. 

Steve is very in need of being looked after. Buck now thinks everyone is, even a creature like himself. 

Zola. His own personal god of reincarnation. Buck supposes some part of him should be thankful - without the procedure he would not be alive, would not know Steve and the others, would not have had the many experiences a human could never have - but he cannot find gratitude inside himself towards the man. There is only anger and fear. The doctor gave him many things to be sure, but he took many as well. His memory, his humanity, his freedom. Today he will try to take many more. He will try to take everything Buck has. 

Steve is very fragile.

A large explosion in the distance, most likely from the Yard, draws his attention. Soon after, there is another and another and another. They just keep coming every few minutes. 

Fury adjusts the frequency of his transponder and spits, "Hogan, come in. Do you read me?" 

Silence. Repeated queries under different names garner him nothing. The Yard crew is not responding. 

"The crate," Fury grits out. He adjusts his transponder to the frequency of those in Claptrap. "Does anyone have eyes on the Winter Soldiers? Other than Buck."

He receives a series of "negative" back from those stationed around the settlement.

"You ordered the other Soldiers to go after it, didn't you?! Are they attacking my men?" Nick demands of the Soldier.

The explosions continue in the distance.

"Sitwell, do you have eyes on the Yard?" Fury barks over there communicator a second later.

"Negative, sir," Jasper responds. 

"I could not have given such an order," Buck insists. "Despite the others' insistence that you allow us access to the weapons in the asset, you refused to divulge their location. I would have no reason to attack my allies. Perhaps the Soldiers uncovered it and the signal drew Zola. Perhaps he is attacking them." 

"Maybe you want the blue serum. Maybe you want to look more human for your boytoy," Fury offers.

Buck counters calmly, "I have no interest in the serum, other than its destruction." 

Steve is very accepting.

"If you didn't give them the order who did?!" Fury barks, leaning in, good eye wild. 

Buck says nothing, unwilling to state Luis is in charge of the Soldiers. He is fully aware the green-eyed man would not have sent them out of his own accord. Which meant...

"**Rogers,**" Nick forces through clenched teeth. "Little blonde bastard. You gave him their words!" He presses the button on his communicator. "Does anyone have eyes on Steve Rogers?" 

Again he receives a barrage of "negative." Nick slams his fist against the top of the catwalk wall as Buck sees Clint shoot them a look - their communication devices are all on the same frequency.

"Barton?" Fury demands over the transponder. "Where's your little brother?!" 

Clint pulls his walkie from his belt to respond. "That's an excellent question, Nicky. Buckley, where the fuck is Steve?" 

Buck remains silent, staring at Clint down the catwalk. 

"Bucky, is Luis and Win with him?" the archer queries with concern - still no response. "This isn't cool, man."

"I do not know what is going on," the Soldier offers over his own communicator.

It is not a lie, but it is not the whole truth.

"Does anyone have eyes on Win or Luis?" Fury asks over his communicator.

"Who's Luis?" a female voice responds.

"Latino male. Mid 20s. Dark hair," Fury responds.

"Not ringing a bell."

"Green eyes. Really hot," Clint adds.

"Ohhhh, the spicy dish with the mohawk," the woman's voice returns. "Negative on both." 

Every response is the same. No one has seen any of the three.

"Bucky, if you know something you'd better spill!" Clint's voice comes over the communicators. "It's not safe out there! What is that fuckin' kid thinking?" 

Steve is very brave. 

"Worry about your people, Barton," Nick responds.

"They are my people!" the archer snaps back.

"_Your unit_. I'll handle this," Fury instructs. 

"I'll show you my unit," Clint counters - he unzips and wags his dick at Fury, then tucks himself away and flips the one-eyed man off. "Now figure out where the fuck they are, _Nicky_!" 

"I'm surrounded by morons and savages," Nick mutters. "Why weren't they seen leaving Claptrap?" he turns and barks at the Soldier. "There are people stationed along the entire wall. No one was allowed out after the party to the Yard without my say so. Even as quick as the Soldiers are, someone would have seen something." 

He speaks into his communicator again. "Sitwell, have you seen any sign of Steve Rogers or those other idiots in the last hour? Inside the wall or out." 

"Negative."

"The reavertown," the Soldier offers suddenly by way of an explanation of the disappearing act.

Steve is very clever. 

Nick's features twist with realization. He takes out his transponder. 

"This is Fury. I need all foot patrol inside the wall to check any building with a dirt or wooden floor. Start with those closest to the wall on the side facing the Yard.

"Copy. What are we looking for sir?"

"A motherfuckin' tunnel is my guess."

Fury glares at Buck in silence. The Soldier, wide-eyed, swallows hard and pleads his boyfriend's case. "He expressed his belief to you that you should reveal the asset, to provide the settlement with more protection. He is... difficult to dissuade." 

Steve is very stubborn. 

"Got one, boss. Auto shop," a voice Buck recognizes as an ex-ops comes over the communicators.

"Follow -" Fury starts to order, but the Soldier grabs his transponder. 

"I will not allow you to send them to hurt Steve and the others," the Soldier says calmly. "He would never let the serums be used. He would not have went without a plan. We must trust him."

Steve is very capable. 

"Boss, say again," comes over the transponder; everyone atop the wall is silent, staring at them.

"Steve and the others could be getting massacred right now. The Soldiers could be incapacitated. Zola could be about to open the crate," Fury reasons.

"No. The Soldiers are not incapacitated. The explosions... all save the first...there is a sound preceding them I recognize. There are more of Crossbones' people coming. I can hear their vehicles in the distance and it is a large force, no doubt the main body of their army. We do not have time to investigate the situation at the Yard. The people here need us and the operatives to lead them." 

Like clockwork, Sitwell comes on.

"We've got company on the drone feed. They're nowhere near the Yard. Conservative ETA, twenty minutes to Claptrap." 

Buck raises his eyebrows. Fury snorts, but nods and the Soldier returns his communicator.

"Hodge, DeMilo. Guard that tunnel. Anyone comes out of it that isn't Rogers and his crew, waste them," Nick instructs over the transponder. "In fifteen, blow it." 

"Yes, sir." 

Fury adjusts the frequency back to the yard crew's. "If any of you fucks can hear me, get back here double time. You've got ten before we close your door."

Buck scowls. "You told the others fifteen."

"What?" Nick snips. "You never tell a motherfucker the actual time you want them somewhere. You always say earlier so they're on time."

"Humans," the Soldier scoffs. 

Another explosion in the distance. Buck can hear gunfire the others cannot at this range, can hear Zola's forces approaching. 

Steve is very vulnerable. 

Buck takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and dives into the work of readying their forces.


	112. Happy accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the shorty brigade run into a snag.

Steve already respected the near-suicidal bravery Luis had shown at the facility and the Xer city and - despite the bullheaded voice being sulky he's playing nice with his..._bond-rival_(?) - he had brought his plan to the green-eyed man without hesitation. It took the three Soldiers under Luis' command fifteen minutes to dig a tenth of a mile underground hole from the auto shop out into the scrubland headed towards the Yard. Win and Steve gathered a few supplies while they got the job done and in no time they were all shimmying out from under a swath of broken down vehicles at the exit of the tunnel.

Win, Luis and Steve each piggy back on a Soldier and they run to the Yard at top speed. Win swings her arm around briefly like she's riding a bucking bronco before grabbing on for dear life as Ramos leaps over a debris pile. The mechanic is definitely having a chat with Buck about why they'd been bothering to take the 'bile to the Yard all this time when the Vampire Express was so much faster and required no fuel. Or maybe it did. Maybe being so _extra_ took it out of him, made him need to feed faster. The other Soldiers wouldn't notice a thing like hunger in their current state. 

He still feels a stab of guilt using them like this, but 

**a bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do**

Zola will kill them all given the opportunity. He wouldn't hesitate to hurtle his entire army at them, even if it meant in the end he'd be warlord of no one. Brock's ego hadn't allowed that. If Coulson could do his dirty work, why risk his position, his forces. 

Steve had been pondering where the crate might be since learning about what was inside it. He knew, or could assume based on evidence, a few basic things about the giant box the Soldier called "the asset:" 

One, its approximate size and weight, which was around that of a compact car. Not an easy thing to hide. Steve, Buck and the others had searched nearly every inch of Claptrap - Nat even sneaking into Fury's office and quarters - between Steve returning from his little mental health vacation at the Yard and when they had left to go on the road to retrieve the water pumps and go to the facility. There were very few places such a large object could be hidden. It wasn't in Claptrap. Hill, Coulson and Sitwell also had unfettered access to the entire community and it seemed none of them knew where it was.

Two, it emitted some sort of signal that the Soldiers' neural nets, and others with the proper technology, could track. It must be blocked somehow, since Buck couldn't pick it up. The signal must be strong and difficult to block since Buck was able to pick it up from a great distance. The signal had not ended in Claptrap - Buck said he had lost it immediately after they loaded the crate, meaning Nick had something in the trailer box ready to block out the signal. Buck had simply followed the vehicles' tracks back to the community. 

Three, it was safe to assume that Rumlow had some way to track it as well. Most likely, Zola had found something in the secondary facility to allow this. They would have lost track of the asset the same as Buck when Fury did whatever to block the signal. The Soldier could move on foot very quickly, needing extremely limited resources. Little dictator Brock could do the same but would not have been willing to allow his followers to go without his leadership for fear that one of his power hungry cronies would take over and plot to eliminate him, which meant he sent people who were only human to track the asset. 

That delay had cost him - they were not able to reach the barn as quickly as Buck, and there would be no tracks to follow back to Claptrap after a few dust storms (even Buck had lost them eventually and got lucky he'd made it to the junktown). Most likely Crossbones had just casted a wide net in the vicinity of the barn and his people also got (un)lucky stumbling on Buck. After the Soldier killed enough of them, it became clear _something_ was in that area. 

Four, Zola would probably still be trying to track it, hoping he would pick something up if he got close enough or it was moved in preparation for the battle. It was unlikely he'd bring his full force to bare on the Yard - he still needs a Soldier to open the box and he wouldn't want the residents to have time to flee, so the brunt of his soldiers would still go to Claptrap. But a chunk would follow the signal - possibly even the doctor himself would show up to take possession of the crate. 

Fury's people are stationed on the dump hill, monitoring the area. The Soldiers leap the scrap yard fence effortlessly without detection and only find a few guys inside - they knock them out and tie them up in the little office building, taking their walkies just in case someone radios in for sitrep. Win pulls a car battery and, per Steve's instruction, Luis has the Soldiers take a long sniff. He orders to search for the area where the smell is most concentrated. It's a hunch, but it pays off when they find an area in the stacks of crushed cars where the scent is intense. There's no quiet way to remove them, so Luis tells them to be quick and the humans take cover behind the concrete block office building while the Soldiers rip the scrap car pile apart.

Inside are hundreds of car batteries, stacked under, over and around the asset several layers deep, the lead inside blocking the signal. Steve gives Luis a smug grin as Win playfully punches the mechanic's arm. There's little time to enjoy their victory though - the walkies go crazy with people above inquiring about the noise and they can see some of them descending the hill. 

"We need it dug out and opened, now!" Steve barks and Luis relays the command. 

By the time the ex-ops leading the group from above - a giant bear of an older guy named Hogan - opens the junkyard gate, the guns and ammo are loaded in the sacks Steve and Win brought and the Soldiers fully outfitted with masks, tactical goggles and more. The sealed case with the serums is in a pack on Steve's back - he had Red open it, but he was unable to smash the tubes or damage the syringes. The glass must be the same as the containment wall and the metal as Buck's arm. Virtually indestructible in other words. He hopes Buck will know what to do. 

"Hey, Happy," Steve addresses the big ex-ops with a little wave and grin. 

"Rogers? What the fuck?!" Hogan demands, several ex-ops and some of the more hardcore civilians filing in behind him and moving in on them. "Is that...? Fuck. So that's where the bastard hid it." He looks over his shoulder. "Told you it had to be close." 

"We need these weapons, to protect Claptrap," the mechanic insists. "Plus, I have a plan." He gives the bigger man - dark haired with gray at the temples and a look of constant weariness - an uncharacteristically charming smile. 

Hogan snorts, amused but unmoved. "You always do, kid. Boss is not gonna like this though. Sorry, Stevie. Unless you want it to turn into _your birthday_ around here, best you stop what you're doing and we have a chat." 

"His birthday?" one of the others asks quietly.

Hogan just eyes the man, irritated his quip didn't land. "The fourth of July."

"Ohhhh," the other Claptrapper responds. 

"Good luck with that, old man," Luis offers. "All of you together don't begin to have enough boom boom." 

Hogan shrugs. "Only need one shot."

Luis drops to the ground as if on cue.

A man runs over, scoops him up as another covertly presses a handgun into Win's ribs. 

"Oh no. Something's wrong with Luis!" Hogan says with mock concern. "Our medics better take a look at him in the office. Win, you should go with. Keep an eye on him." He grins at her as she scowls.

"You hear any racket out here, deal with them," Hogan says calmly as he puts an arm around Steve that looks friendly but is far too tight, allowing him to physically direct the blonde away from the Soldiers - he clamps a hand over the mechanic's mouth. 

The Soldiers keep following their previous orders, not realizing the threat, backs to the whole thing. These are other Claptrappers after all. Their allies. People they've been told to protect. Stupid not to update that. Steve hadn't thought it would come to this even though Bullhead had a lot to say on the subject. He didn't really want to consider killing these people. Especially Happy - though he didn't know the man well beyond the occasional card game, he had seemed like a stand up, reasonable guy. How naive. Fury's hold on his team is a powerful thing. 

"I really thought your boyfriend would have given you the keys to the kingdom, kid, but then I saw the fancy headset on Luis. Way better for playing boss than a walkie. Must know how hot tempered and reckless you are. Or maybe he just likes _old green-eyes_ better than you," Hogan muses. "Cute kid and they are _so chummy_."

That would have made Steve really insecure a few weeks ago. Now that Bullhead had decided Luis is relationship enemy number two, after Zola who is intent on taking Buck away in a much more literal way, it just makes him incredibly pissed off. Logic-numbingly so. He bites Hogan's hand as he grabs his balls hard simultaneously, squeezing. The big man makes quite a racket while he stumbles away.

_Racket. Oh no._

Steve immediately hears a scream from the office building. 

Hogan looks as surprised as the blonde, both wide-eyed with shock and guilt. The big man fumbles for his communicator.

"I thought it would be obvious that was just to scare Rogers. Please tell me you idiots didn't actually kill them." 

There's silence. 

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck..." 

**Luis problem solved,** Bullhead says smugly as Steve turns, walks slowly to the office - it feels like he's moving through liquid concrete, his mouth dry, his hands cold and shaking. **Too bad about Win. She was good people,** the voice continues as Steve's vaguely aware of Hogan behind him talking, apologizing, following - the ex-ops asks something that focuses the mechanic's attention. 

"Where's the big ginger?" 

Steve turns to the Soldiers - Ramos and Washington are still placidly carrying out orders, but Red is gone. 

"The hell?" he whispers.

Seconds later Winter Soldier 21 bursts out of the glass block window of the office, an orange, gray and black blur. He tackles Hogan, rolls with him and chucks him into the others as they raise their weapons. With lightning speed he runs to their down and half-down forms, disarms them and tosses their weapons over his shoulder into the crate. The other Soldiers freeze, unsure what to do with this change in perameter. One of the men scrambles to grab a machine gun from Win's sack, checks the magazine, pulls the trigger - nothing happens. Red calmly walks up, grabs the weapon, and punches him cold.

21 grabs Hogan by the vest, lifts him up off the ground effortlessly. "Ask your soldier with the tranquilizer gun to drop their weapon and come out from their hiding place." 

"Carter, come out," Hogan calls. "Slowly." 

A woman with wavy blonde hair squeezes out of a junked car half way up a stack, drops down and moves to join the others as they dust themselves off. Steve recognizes Sharon from around - she's nearly as tall as Clint, quiet and serious. He's always assumed she was former government, though she's not ex-ops. Like Nat, she knew Fury before the collapse. 

"You are all under arrest," Red says evenly as he slowly sets Hogan down. 

"What?" the older man rasps.

The big Soldier tilts his head to the side, like he was surprised by his own words, then straightens, turns to Steve. 

"Luis has instructed I follow your orders to move forward with the plan previously discussed." 

"Anyone here a good sniper?" Steve asks - Hogan gestures for the others to answer.

Carter and two others raise their hands. 

"If you want, you can stay. The rest of you, head back to Claptrap and help defend the wall. There's a tunnel under the junk cars on this side of the wall. Once you're through, have them blow it, but far out. Can't risk Crossbones' people finding it, but we don't need a wall collapse either." 

"Stay for...?" Hogan starts, trails off.

"If I'm right, some of them will come looking for this box," the mechanic offers, "maybe even the guy in charge. And we're going to give it to them."


	113. It's rainin' men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola has a few tricks up his sleeves.
> 
> ***Warning: this shit gets messy. Blood. Death. Etc. Shit is *real* in the world so just wanted to warn, in case anyone isn't in the mood right now. Hugs.***

Crossbones' followers approach Claptrap on the side facing the gate and spread out in a wide arc to cover nearly half the circumference of the wall. Scout trucks are placed at intervals around the entire thing, ensuring no one will try to escape. Fury and Buck had put every hand to work - including the Soldiers - for days preparing, but their plans all hinged around one simple thing: their enemy had to move within a certain range. 

Zola is no fool, not driven by a fragile ego in the same way as his predecessor to the title of Crossbones. The doctor, unlike Brock Rumlow, doesn't feel he has anything to prove. He knows to his rock hard, genetically enhanced bones that he is and always has been superior to everyone else based on his intellect alone. That fact doesn't mean you underestimate an opponent - it means you out-think them.

Crossbones 2.0 stops his people just shy of where the Claptrappers want them.

"Perhaps he intends to attempt negotiation," Buck offers. "To trick us. To lure you out."

Fury's good eye only narrows, and he takes out a pair of high-tech binoculars to survey the trucks in the distance. A bunch of one-stripes are unloading large stacks of beams, lengths of thick rope. They begin assembling them into several large structures.

"They taught you all sorts of weapons and battle tactics in that fancy facility. They ever talk about medieval warfare?" Nick questions, his voice seemingly calm, but with a low faint edge to it perhaps only the Soldier can hear.

"I have extremely limited knowledge in that arena," Buck responds. 

"You're about to get a crash course. Because those are motherfuckin' trebuchets," Nick says as he starts to go through his pockets. 

Buck's brows draw in. "Please explain their function."

"Well, if every movie I've seen about white people in chainmail killing a bunch of other white people in chainmail is correct, usually they launch giant fire balls at your stronghold." 

The Soldier's eyes widen. 

Fury finally discovers what he's looking for and pulls out a small plastic baggie, unrolls it, takes out half a previously smoked cigarette, puts it between his lips. He walks over to a woman holding a lit torch aloft, carefully sets it aflame, takes a deep drag, holds it, then slowly blows it out through his nose.

"Been saving this for a special occasion. Stale as shit, but still the best cigarette of my whole goddamn life. You probably won't get this, but everything is better when you think it could be the last time." 

Buck clutches the cell phone over the fabric of his pants again. "I understand." 

"Nicky," Clint comes over the walkie. "What the fuck do we do? They're out of range." 

"Even for me," Sitwell chimes in on his communicator.

He is now atop the wall nearby with his massive new rifle. Paul - Monet at his side - and a cluster of others considered the best shots have similar weaponry stolen from the Xer armory and stand at the ready. 

"They are not close enough for our other preparations to be useful," Buck offers. "We need them to rush the wall."

Fury nods. "They think they can just sit back and watch it all burn, then demand surrender from whoever's left. If they don't calmly march in and kill the survivors. I expected flaming projectiles but not at this scale. Fuckin' Steve. Fuckin' right again. Goddamn fire hoses. At least the little shit - no offense - isn't around to hear me say it, but he might save the day." 

"He would be very amused." Buck grins, but it fades quickly - the hoses and fire suppression crews can only do so much if flaming boulders begin to rain down from the sky. "Perhaps I should go on foot, destroy the...tre-buh-shays... before they are able to use them," the Soldier offers. 

"I have a damn excellent idea of what your kind is capable of. But even you won't make it through their frontline, let alone behind it. As amusing as watching you try would be, currently you're my greatest weapon." Fury takes a deep drag, smoke billowing out when he speaks again. "He's gotta have five, maybe six hundred people and every single one of them will have their weapon trained on you the second you hop this wall. They'll shred you apart. Probably got a few flamethrowers at the ready too. Remember, he expects to have to fight four of your kind and yet he still showed up. Ballsy motherfucker must think he's ready to handle you." 

"He should not have so many troops, unless Paul and Monet both underestimated the forces out in the field, particularly if the noise we heard from the yard is another unit of his army." Buck surveys the enemy soldiers as they finish the quick assembly of the massive weapons. "Ah. A large portion of those among them are not Rumlow's people. There were some who wore human trophies among his forces before, but reavers look... different and that is what many of these are. I had ample time to study them previously. Zola must have joined forces with several large bands."

"You saw how well that went for them last time. And what the fuck could he have promised reavers to get them to follow _any_ outsider's orders?" Fury quips. 

Buck eyes Nick, face somber. 

"_All of you_. You are the only large settlement for hundreds of miles. You have young people. Children." The Soldier hesitates. "_Babies._ That is what they like best according to Steve. If he offered to keep no slaves for himself, to spare the wounded, to allow them to take everyone, perhaps that would be enough. They are not usually well versed with guns or technical weapons, too nomadic to maintain large stockpiles of supplies to create such elaborate mechanisms and they do not typically have vehicles. They would never make it here or through the wall on their own. They are clever." 

"Yes they are. And we learned a lot from them, didn't we?" Fury grins, cocks an eyebrow. 

"Yes. Steve perhaps learned too much." Buck scowls, thinking of the tunnel. 

Crossbones' followers begin to drag something on a makeshift sled over to one of the fully assembled trebuchets. It is a waist-high, wide object, covered in a thin sheet. A dozen people grip it, lift it and load it into the sling to be launched.

"What the hell is that?" Jasper queries, eyeing it through the scope of his rifle, Paul at his side doing the same.

The sheet billows in the wind. It moves up just enough to show a criss-cross of thick silver wire. Monet's eyes go wide, and she grabs Paul's shoulder hard enough that her sharp fingers draw a bit of blood as she points to the object with one long talon.

"Penance!" 

"Oh fuck," the petite man grits out - it isn't from pain. He grabs Jasper's communicator. "Uhhh, angry cyclops guy. Those are kennel cages."

"So they're about to launch what at us? Rabid puppies?" Nick muses over his own transponder, looking down the catwalk at Paul. 

Paul glowers, and points aggressively at Monet. She eyes him, then copies the gesture. It would be comical under other circumstances.

The object launches, the sheet billowing free, wafting almost peacefully to the barren scrubland below as the shining cube shaped cage hurdles through the air and over the wall. It lands with a loud crash in one of the shanties several hundred yards inside Claptrap. Fury turns, surveying the landing site. 

"At the settlement," Paul continues, "the doctor kept his experiments at the veterinary clinic. I never saw it myself, but I would hear the soldiers talk about it sometimes. Other creatures he invented, savage ones. Ones with no intellect, just the drive to kill. Ones even Crossbones couldn't control." 

A twisted, reddish shape leaps from the debris and runs at the nearest person, tackling them and ripping out their wind pipe with its teeth as they uselessly fire their weapon. The thing is on its feet in seconds, biting and slashing as others attempt to subdue it with guns and hand weapons. They hear a telltale sound, and another cage flies over their heads, smashes open on the ground. Then another and another and another. Soon a half dozen gray and red creatures are savagely tearing those on the ground, one ascending the wall and beginning to rip through the people lined up there like tissue paper. In the distance, they hear the high-powered fire hoses go off, no doubt to keep one of the things that's landed farther in away from the firemen and their shovel crews.

Fury grabs the torch from the woman and lights up the thing on the catwalk. Buck roundhouse kicks it down off the wall into the scrub where it howls as it burns alive. Then he jumps down into the fray inside the town, knife in hand, knowing his bullets will do little. Several creatures swarm him, a red slicing chunks from his arm with its claws. It's flesh is armored, very similar to Monet but not quite as thick. Still, it takes immense effort to drive his blade through its hide. He smashes his metal fist into the creature again and again and again once he has it on the ground, until finally it's skull cracks and its mashed brains shoot out. A gray-green, foul smelling thing jumps on his back and latches onto his shoulder with its teeth, just to the right of his flack vest. The pain is not as severe as when the Jack-thing had attacked him at the Xer city, but it is still intense - he knows right away the thing is venomous. 

When Buck yanks the creature off - metal hand gripping the back of its neck and pulling hard while his other hand digs into their back so deep he is able to curl fingers around its spinal column - it tears a chunk free with it. The gaping wound does not heal. As he slings the creature forward, he rips its spine, skull still attached, fully out of its mushy, rotten body. He crushes its skull beneath his boots, making sure to destroy whatever is left inside. Purple blood pores down his back and chest, rivlets of it spreading into the dip of his clavicle and streaming down his arm.

"Penance!" Monet yells to Paul, jerking her head in the direction of the wounded Soldier. "Penance, penance!" She gestures from herself to Buck.

"Fine, fine!" the petite man responds. "Go help Buck, but be careful." 

"Just remember everybody," Fury says over his walkie, "the red wearing the..." He pulls the transponder away from his face, mutters to himself "what the fuck does that say?" before bringing it back up to his mouth, "blue t-shirt that says Free Hugs is on our side." 

Win had dressed Monet in a ringer style t-shirt that said the slogan across the front in huge white letters. It was almost a joke, given how decidedly unhuggable the crimson, rock-skinned girl appeared. Judging from the facial expression Monet had made after, she was not amused.

Monet leaps off the wall, landing inside the perimeter and runs into the fray, her superior armor and talons ripping through the other creatures as those on the cat walk fire down at Zola's bio-weapons. More continue to land. 

Buck is not accustomed to losing so much blood so quickly, his body normally healing in seconds even from a large wound, and he stumbles from the drop in pressure. As he falls to one knee, a pale red creature flies at him, talons at the ready. This one also resembles Monet, though the armored patches cover far less of its body, and it is clear from the expression on the thing's face it is far more of a mindless animal than a person. 

The Soldier catches the thing by the throat with his metal hand as it flies at him, his right arm barely moving, half numb and refusing his attempts to raise it. The red thing shreds his face, neck and chest with its talons, slashing wildly and screaming like a banshee. The new wounds at least heal, but it's even more strain on his body. He squeezes until it's wind pipe is crushed, the arteries in its neck burst, and finally the flesh and muscle of its neck give way completely and he is just gripping its spine between his metal fingers. A hard twist snaps it.

When he throws it down, the thing flails like a dying fish, but its neck begins to regenerate. Buck smashes a boot into its chest to pin it to the ground, grips hard underneath its jaw, thumb digging into the joint on one side while his pointer and middle finger dig into the one on the opposite. He yanks up, ripping its head from its body and tosses it a great distance. His shoulder is still bleeding, the blood pouring out of him darker and darker as his body attempts to manufacture more with less and less energy reserves to fuel his regeneration. The Soldier's vision gets blurry, and his movements slow. He can feel the need growing, demanding that he feed to replenish himself, as the venom works its way through him.

The humans have taken shelter on rooftops or on the wall, raining intense barrages of gun and bow fire on the creatures to keep them at bay. Many of the reds are partially or completely armored - especially their long, clawed hands -and the bullets and arrows are only a minor annoyance, their wounds healing where they cut through any fleshy parts. Another one makes it up onto the catwalk, starts cutting through the citizens there as they almost uselessly shoot back. Many others start to converge on Buck, along with several more gray creatures, drooling black. 

There are over a dozen in total, circling him and advancing rapidly, snarling. It occurs to him there must be something about him in particular they like the taste of, or just find offensive, because they don't seem to attack one another. Suddenly Monet is at his back, slashing with her taloned hands and feet at the advancing monsters. 

"Fuck, there's too many!" Paul yells, firing his rifle into their eye sockets - it barely slows them.

Jasper remembers the incident when they had first spotted Monet, when they did not yet know who she was and the Winter Soldiers were fighting her, considering how her eyes looked soft enough. He still has a few exploding rounds taken from the Xer armory and quickly takes them from his ammo pouch, starts handing them over to Paul to load into his weapon. 

"Exploding rounds? You big flirt," Paul says with a wink as he takes aim. Every shot hits its mark - straight into a creature's eye - and bursts their brains inside their skull like an overripe watermelon, blood spraying from their mouths, and nasal cavities, eyes bursting out. He's out too quickly though, leaving so many more.

Another gray runs at a woozy Buck as he takes down another red. 

Suddenly an arrow goes into the eye socket of the closest one, and the Soldier has seconds to think that it will not kill the creature before its head explodes, coating his face in black blood.

"Fuck yes!" Clint yells from above. "Our little project works, Jasper!" he screams down the catwalk. "I won't make fun of you for a whole week if we live, you magnificent bald bastard!" 

He's firing as he talks, shooting arrow after arrow rigged with the explosive mechanisms he and Sitwell had developed together into the eyeballs of the attacking creatures. 

There is screaming in the distance.

Muriel's voice comes over the walkies in a desparate whisper - she was taking shelter with a variety of others who were unable to fight, mostly elderly and children, in the relatively sturdy dining facility. "We need -" static breaks in. "There are creatures -" 

Her voice cuts out.

"Johns, Cervantes, I have inhuman hostiles in the dining facility," Nick barks over his communicator. "Destroy the brain or light them up."

"Copy, boss," one of the ex-ops responds. "We're on it."

"Kate, you're in charge till I get back," Clint informs his best student. "Whatever you do, don't moon the enemy. That's how you get shot in the ass," the archer quips as he runs down the glass block steps that form one of the buttresses helping hold up the wall - he's at Buck's side moments later. 

Vic is already there, arms around the Soldier's waist, easing him down to sit on the ground. His wound is sluggishly bleeding, still clotting faster than a human, but not healing.

"Take it easy big guy, you did good," the bartender offers, pulling rags from his jacket to stuff into the gaping wound on Buck's shoulder. Monet is taking out the stragglers as they approach, decapitating two more gray-green creatures after they attempt to bite her - their fangs busting off on her hide -before leaping on a red and shredding it to pieces.

"What can I do?" the bartender asks Clint. 

The archer has seen Buck hungry and fucked up before, knows the look on his face well. "He won't like it, since they're our own, but take him behind a building and drag a couple of the dead people there, the ones that the grays didn't bite. Get him to eat." 

Vic has a brief look of surprise, but steels himself, nods.

"And where are you going, muscles?" Paul demands, joining as Clint leaves.

"To blow up some heads!" the archer calls back as he runs off.

"You brought all your vodka out right?" the petite man questions Vic. "To make molotovs?" The bartender nods. "We need a bunch of that, to try to flush this out." 

"Barton!" Nick yells over his communicator, "get your fat white ass back up here this fucking minute!"

"Thank you for complimenting the juiciness of my booty, Nicky, but no can do. Seems like I got the only weapon that can take these things out easily," Clint responds. "Bishop'll watch my post. She's almost as good as me and they like her better anyway. Don't tell her I said that." He smirks, knowing full well that everyone with a communication device tuned to their signal can hear him, including Kate. "Don't blow a gasket, bossman, I - FUCK!"

The communicators go silent.


	114. Boombox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and the other Claptrappers turn up the volume.

A large fleet of dirt bikes, jeeps and off-road vehicles approach the Yard. Zola is smart - he hasn't sent any heavy trucks. Everything is nimble on the sand and there's just one large vehicle, a truck-type cab and chassis fitted with a flatbed back and tank-style tracks - it looks more than capable of carrying the crate. The entire force stops abruptly when they sight it, partially buried in a sand drift, near the fence surrounding the auto yard. 

Several one-stripe crews led by two-stripes are ordered to check the box (which appears sealed from a distance) and the surrounding areas. The gate to the junk yard is wide open, no sign of anyone inside, including the small office building. Others circulate the caravan, checking their perimeter. As some of them finally move in on the crate, they see it has words painted on the top. A one-stripe drinker reads it eagerly to their three-stripe commander as she stands at a safe distance, shielded next to a vehicle. 

"It says, _take the crate and leave. A Winter Soldier will follow you. Once you are two hundred miles from Claptrap, they will reveal themselves and open it for you. In exchange, you will never return here. We will avoid your territory and make no moves against you._" 

Another drinker laughs. "They know they can't defeat Crossbones! They're just handing it over!" 

"To his glory! He'll be so pleased when we deliver it to him," a third adds.

"Idiots," the three-stripe calls as more drinkers surround the box, touching it reverently like a holy object. "They'd never do that. They've probably already taken the weapons to their settlement. They're just trying to keep our full power away from their stupid little town." She rolls her eyes, lifts her transponder. "Anything to report?" 

"Nothing in the auto yard but the expected," a voice comes back.

"Same on the hill." 

"Nothing in our vehicles' vicinity but junk." 

"Junk?" she queries.

"You know, crap half buried in the waste sand. Car parts. A bunch of suitcases." 

One of the drinkers jams a long crowbar beneath the crate, tries to move it. Several others join in. 

"It's heavy!" one calls happily. "It must be full."

More drinkers scurry over with long boards to slide under the crate as the others work on tilting it up.

"Suitcases?" the three-stripe asks.

"Yeah, they're like... Scattered all over." 

"Fuck," the Xer commander hisses. "**Rogers.**" She yells into her communicator, "pull everyone back!" as she gestures to those at the crate, who ignore her. "Complete withdraw to the vehicles. Do not, I repeat, do not touch any of those suitcases." 

The drinkers manage to slide three boards under the crate. 

"Get the fuck back from there!" the commanding officer screams. "Leave it!" 

"Crossbones will want it!" one responds, continuing to work. 

"It's his goal," another drinker adds. 

"His dream," a third supplies. 

"His right!" a fourth chimes in. 

When they lift it up and over they have only enough time to register the hole dug under the middle - lined with batteries, filled with chunks of metal, and packed with explosives, det cord running out in several directions into the sand from a pressure switch - before there's a loud click. The explosion sends a rain of debris shooting out in all directions, ricocheting off the crate, shredding the several dozen drinkers working around it. The activation spreads through the det cord and suitcase after suitcase blows around and under the vehicles. Screws, bolts, crushed glass and chunks of scrap metal blast through the Xers and their vehicles alike. 

Steve and the others, laying out flat atop the car stacks -welded together to form the corridor on either side of the junk yard gate - roll on their bellies to assess the carnage. The mechanic, Win, and Sharon are on the left stack, and the other two Claptrappers who stayed behind from Happy's group are on the right with Luis and the Soldiers. Those with rifles start picking off vehicle drivers and Xers still on their feet while Luis stays low, watching with his fancy binoculars in the darkness and guiding the Soldiers over the headset he'd taken back from the ex-ops guy 21 had throttled. 

Washington and Red pop up in unison, each wielding a new WS series rocket launcher taken from the crate. They proceed to attack every vehicle bigger than a bike that's still attempting to flee, leaving the track truck - driver already dead - unharmed per Luis' orders. Ramos reloads for them again and again. When the targets are largely smoking ruins, they relinquish the giant tubes and leap down to begin systematically killing everyone in sight. 

The drinkers inside the scrapyard run out, start climbing the corridor stacks to try to reach them, and the Claptrappers rain a hail of bullets down on them, Luis - who's come to terms with being a terrible shot - chucking down batteries and car parts. It's chaos below; two-stripes bark orders at those under their command who are still listening to return fire while others flee. Screams emanate from the burning vehicles that make all of them clench their teeth and the smell is horrific. 

"Washington! Subdue the woman with the three stripes on her shoulder, but don't kill her," Luis orders as the Xer commander pulls the dead driver from a jeep and hops behind the wheel. "Bring her to me." 

The Soldier runs and then leaps through the air, landing on the hood of the vehicle and denting it in. She grabs the woman by the hair, yanks her up and slugs her in the face - knocking her cold - then throws the three-stripe over her shoulder. Washington scales the car-wall, bringing the woman to Luis, who helps tie her up and lash her to the top of one of the cars. 

The drinkers are easy to pick off - no matter how many they kill, more run into the line of fire in an attempt to get the crate. But others keep trying to scale the cars to reach them and there's so many. 

"Almost feel sorry for them," Win offers, before shooting one climbing towards them. "Crazy assholes." 

"Well, the Soldiers were probably needing to eat anyway," Steve says calmly, before shooting another one and gesturing to Ramos, who's busy making someone into a drink pouch. 

"Shit, Rogers, and I thought you were a nice guy," Carter quips, taking out a woman who made it nearly up to them. 

"Look, they knew what Rumlow was and they chose to be his braindead lackies. They must have chose it again for Zola," Steve offers, reloading. "I don't have an ounce of pity for any of them." 

"Or maybe the doctor...inherited them," Win offers, "since he's all..." she trails off and makes the hissing face Clint makes when he's pretending to be a vampire. 

"What the hell was _that_?" Sharon asks, barely sparing the welder a glance before firing. 

"An unfunny middle aged man's attempt to be humorous about my boyfriend having fangs," the mechanic retorts. 

"Don't let Buck hear you say he has fangs," Luis quips from across the entrance road leading to the now-closed gate. "That bothers him almost as much as being called it." 

"Hey! Can I get through _one day_ without you telling me about **my boyfriend**?" Steve snarks, turning to look at the other man - Sharon yanks him back a bit as a bullet whizzes by. 

"Oooooooo, somebody's jelly!" Win mocks before firing. 

"And I have _you_ to blame for **this** too, Luis! Since you got her screwing Clint her humor is getting dumber by the day! It's like...the Bartoning!" the mechanic gripes. 

"A, I didn't get anyone to screw anyone. I wasn't even consulted," Luis starts.

"Consulted!" Win snorts. "Says the guy...packing his brownies."

"And B, Buck is basically my best friend so of course I know a lot of stuff about him," the green-eyed man continues, a tad defensively. "I had literally no one else to talk to for six months so sue me if I know a lot about the guy." He adds over his headset, "Red, that jeep at five o'clock is still creeping on two wheels." 

The big ginger runs over and smashes his body into the side of the half-destroyed vehicle, knocking it over. He jumps up on the side door, drops in a grenade and leaps away. It explodes spectacularly. 

"Aren't you a little old to have a _best friend_?" the mechanic says to Luis in a judgy, mocking tone. 

"Uhhh, fuck am I to you? Chop liver?" Win demands of Steve. 

"At least your sense of humor didn't shit the bed after you and I did it," Steve grumbles - the welder slaps him up side the head. 

"Maybe it wasn't as good. Maybe Clint has got me..." She pauses, thinks about the word, smiles broadly. "Sprung." 

"Who says _sprung_ anymore?" Luis calls over. 

"Are you making fun of my English?" Win queries, feigning offense, as she shoots again. "Gonna have to sleep on couch at this rate." 

"I believe he's making fun of Clint's use of old man slang," Steve offers, pulling the bolt on his rifle to expel the shell casing. "And none of us own a couch." 

"Wait, are you saying Clint's a better lay than me?!" Luis asks, probably only half-joking, before tossing down a headlight assembly and knocking a woman off the side of the car-stack. "Ramos, watch out for that bike at your six. Incendiary." 

The Soldier whirls, shoots out the approaching dirt bike's front tire. It flips forward, rolling over the driver, who sets himself on fire. 

"Ohhh, don't be salty. You give way better head, honey," Win responds. 

"Wow, sounds like your dick game is not strong. Guess I don't have to worry about you stealing my boyfriend after all," the mechanic chuckles. 

"I'd put you and Luis... What's the term? On par," the welder says with a smirk. 

"Ha!" Luis barks out. "Wait, is that bad?" 

"Noooooo!" Win responds, then shoots a guy off the stack. 

"We're both not as good as Clint is what you're saying though?" Steve accuses, firing. 

"I didn't say that." Win grins devilishly. "But I will say, that dick is thiiiick! And he's so muscly and can just... throw you around." She raises her eyebrows twice at Sharon, who just shakes her head with fond irritation. 

"Hey, I can throw you around!" Luis says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. 

"You're all sweet and nice and romancey." Win bats her lashes dramatically, then picks a guy off a bike headed into the distance. "You wouldn't be into the rough stuff." 

"Clint would beg to differ," Luis says coyly. 

"You been holding out on me?" the welder asks, flirty. 

"Just say the word, chica," Luis smiles and makes double finger guns. 

"Oh come on!! That was the most Clint thing I've ever seen!" Steve wails. "The Bartoning is upon you!" 

"Children," Sharon says sternly, "now is not the time! Jesus, Barton's dumb ass is being a distraction and he isn't even here!" She leans up abruptly for a better angle, fires, then drops back down. "I think you've _all_ been spending too much time with him. It's just blah blah blah! I couldn't fuck that man without a ball gag!" 

"Hey! That's one of my boyfriends you're trash talking, blondey," the welder squawks. "And his!" She hooks a thumb at Luis. 

Sharon looks over at him and he just shrugs, raising both hands and half-smirking as if to say _I don't know how this happened either._

"Nat says that doesn't even shut him up," Steve offers. 

The fighting slows, grinds to a halt as they clear out the stragglers. The other group of Xers is still locked inside the auto yard, fortifying their positions. A quick order from Luis and the Soldiers are jumping the fence. Screams and gunfire fill the night air and then there's only quiet. 

"So I'm your boyfriend?" Luis asks Win, cocky and sheepish at once, as they climb down. 

She hops to the ground, rolls her eyes - apparently Natasha was rubbing off on her too - and sighs like it's a huge burden. "I guess so." 

He grabs her around the waist, picks her up and kisses her, all uncharacteristically aggressive for him. Steve smiles despite himself. Win looks happy and that's all that matters. At least if they lose - the war, each other - they got to have this. All of them. For now, they're victorious. He pulls out the phone and watches the video of Buck signing I love you. For once, he feels worthy of the sentiment. 

With only five sharpshooters, three Winter Soldiers, a very attractive young man who is good at giving orders and throwing batteries, plus a lot of plastic explosives (thank you, crate) and literal junk, Steve Rogers had successfully eliminated around a hundred and fifty enemy combatants. Not bad for a scrawny kid from Brooklyn defending the lives and homes of everyone he knows. 

Still, no Zola. 

"Folks," he says, standing and pulling back the bolt on his rifle to release the last shell casing, "we've got a delivery to make." 


	115. You spin me right round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's night gets twisted.

A reddish thing leaps through the shattered door frame of the mess hall, slamming all four sets of talons into Clint's body and knocking him to the dirt. He lands on his back, bow clattering out of his hand and quiver pressing into his ribs and shoulder blade. The claws on its feet are dug into his sides and its fingertips buried under the outer ends of his collarbones, near his shoulder joints. It isn't armored like Monet, only a few rough patches on its skin here and there, but its fingers and toes are certainly long, hard and sharp like hers. The archer grits his teeth as a loud, high-pitched wail of agony emanates from his throat. 

He thinks to himself that he'd be fine to die on his back if it was with someone riding his dick. 

Ideally several someone's taking turns... 

Maybe one of them sitting on his face...

But the monster on top of him - the color of tomatoes that haven't ripened long enough with splotchy, stony callouses covering parts of its body and putrid yellow eyes that lack a pupil or iris - is not exactly his idea of a hot date. He's pretty sure it doesn't want to bang him, just wants to bang on him, and even more positive when it leans low, growls in his face, gnashes its teeth. 

He notices it has fangs like Buck and he can't help himself. 

Clint opens his mouth wide, curls his lips back away from his teeth and hisses at the thing like every bad Dracula movie he saw as a kid. It tilts its head to the side, confused, not noticing as the archer's hands scramble around on the ground for anything to defend himself. Suddenly the thing looks downright pissed, like it realizes he's mocking it. It hisses back, thrice as loud and a hundred times as menacing as he did.

The archer swings the explosive-tipped arrow that had fallen from his bow up into the thing's temple. Half its head explodes spectacularly, covering his hair, face and neck with flesh and brain matter. The shockwave from the boom forces his raised arm out hard, smashing it into the ground, breaking several of his fingers and some of the more delicate bones in the back of his big hand, dislocating his elbow. The contents of its skull are even pale red, its blood an odd color like watered down red grape juice except thick like used motor oil - it coats the fancy goggles he's wearing, making it difficult to see. He slides them up with the hand that doesn't feel like it's on fire.

It takes immense effort to pull the thing's talons out. The flak vest he's wearing from the Soldier facility slowed them significantly, kept them from going inches deep, but they're also embedded in it (then into him) and it's a bitch to remove them from it with one broken hand. He's not sure if the toes hit anything vital in his sides - like his kidneys - but he's certainly bleeding like a stuck pig; dealing with that will have to wait. He uses a rag from one of his belt pouches to clean his lenses since he'll need the night vision; it's pitch black in this part of the settlement now with the moon behind the clouds. 

Picking up his bow with his good hand, he gets back to his feet, notches another explosive arrow with great effort and pain, his shattered hand only sort of responding to his commands. He hears loud grunting inside. Ten feet through the entrance he has to slide the goggles back off when he rounds a corner - part of the interior is burning and it flares in his vision, nearly blinding him. There are twisted shapes lying on the ground in the flames. He sees a form moving behind a table out of the corner of his eye. Clint spins, aiming, drawing back, stifling a cry of pain - his injured hand can barely keep hold of the arrow.

"Happy?!" the archer barks, quickly lowering his weapon. 

The big ex-ops is slamming the butt of his automatic weapon into the head of a gray thing again and again as he makes sounds nearly as feral as the creature he's straddling. It's still kicking, still flailing at him, even with its skull half caved in. Hogan stands, grabs a curtain that's partially on fire and yanks it down on the thing. It makes an inhuman screech and convulses, unable to get out of the tangle of burning fabric before the flames spread to it. 

"It fucking killed them, Barton. My squad!" the big man says, obviously dazed, black blood splatter all over him, his own - red and shiny - running from a gash in his upper arm and another on his cheek. "Vaughn panicked, lit the other ones up. Don't know where he got off too." 

The bodies of Claptrappers - some Clint knows by sight and some by name - are littered across the concrete floor. A few are ex-ops, others civilian fighters who had been sent with Hogan to the Yard. There are elderly people too, twisted and ripped apart; Samir's corpse is still clutching the crowbar (coated in black blood) he had fought them with. The archer has enough time to think about Greta, about how proud she'd be of the old man, about how they'd both went down fighting, before he recognizes the mother of several of the young children. 

Her throat is torn out. 

She is visibly pregnant. 

It's a good thing he didn't have time to eat because his stomach lurches. He badly wants to ask about Steve and the others, but there's no time.

"Where are the kids?" Clint demands of the other man.

The big ex-ops just stares at the burning creature - the thing finally quiet - with glassy eyes and says nothing. 

"Happy? Did the kids run? Did they get out?" The archer moves around to Hogan's front, yells in his face. "HOGAN! THIS PLACE IS GOING UP! WHERE. ARE. THE. KIDS?!" 

"I...I don't know. I didn't see any," Happy finally responds. 

They hear a scraping sound. A thud followed by muffled, frightened cries. More sounds. Scratching against something heavy and metal. 

A door. 

"The pantry!" the archer barks, pulling out his walkie to call a fire crew. "It's fucked," he laments, the thing busted from his tumble with the creature. 

"Mine too," Happy agrees.

"Go find a fire crew, Hap, or half our food is going up! They should be at the water pumps!" he yells as he runs towards the kitchen.

The woman who took in Silence is dead just inside the kitchen door, half her face gouged open, her rifle on the floor, empty shell casings everywhere. The red thing that killed her is throwing itself against the sturdy steel door they use to protect the pantry from theft, food being one of their most precious commodities. It doesn't lock from the inside but is only opening a bit; it goes wider with each slam. Other Claptrappers must have it barricaded inside. 

"Hey, fuck face!" Clint calls. 

It whirls on him, screaming. It doesn't have eyes - armored sheaths cover where they should be. He launches the arrow with immense effort from his shaky hand into its open mouth and it blows off its jaw, bursts its brain stem, destroys its cervical vertebrae. Clint kicks at its head until it comes the rest of the way off and rolls across the kitchen. Smoke is starting to come in under the door from the big dining room. 

"Hey! I need you to unblock the door! We gotta go!" he yells through the crack into the pantry. "Place is on fire!" 

"Fuck you! How do I know you're not one of those Xer shitheads?" an old woman's voice returns - he hears the pump of a shotgun after. 

"Muriel? That you?! It's Clint."

"Who?" 

"Luis' boyfriend." 

"Luis doesn't have a boyfriend." 

Shit. This wasn't the time for her to have an episode. 

"The guy with the bow and arrow. Steve's friend. I found Alicia at the reavertown. I really need you to open the door!" 

He hears the squawk of heavy things being moved. 

"Yeah, yeah," she says, "I'm just fucking with you. I know who you are, dumbass. You're just not good enough to date my boy!" 

"Wow! Well, you're welcome for saving your life," Clint huffs before he kicks the back door to the kitchen open, giving them an escape route.

Muriel rolls her eyes, spreads out a tablecloth, piles it with food and then ties the ends to form a sack. She shoves it to one of the kids. 

"Follow the dumbass," she tells the kid, as she starts filling a new tablecloth. "And don't drop this. Keep your eyes peeled for more of those things." 

Soon a line of kids - all holding sacks or cases of food (or other, smaller children, like the girl clutching Violet) - are following the archer through the camp. He has no idea what to do with them, so he heads for his house. It's far from the wall, made of concrete and glass blocks. It won't light up at least. They pass shanties smashed to pieces by the fall of the things from the sky, a few on fire. No crews putting them out.

That's not good. 

"Mister!" an older boy calls from the back of the line - he's in his early teens, pimple faced with heavy glasses that are cracked a bit on one side. "The old lady fell!" 

Clint runs back to Muriel - she's collapsed on the ground, holding her belly. The archer hands the shotgun to the older boy, leads him and the other kids over next to one of the shanties, then returns to the old woman. He pulls her hands back, moves her heavy, dark overcloak away. She's slashed up bad. Her intestines are bulging through multiple places and she's soaked in blood. 

Buck's blood is probably toxic and he can barely stand. The other Soldiers are at the Yard. 

Maybe Bruce has Soldier blood stored at the medbay. The group had talked about stocking him up before the fight, but he didn't know if it had happened. 

It's far more than Soldier blood could safely heal in one go and even receiving the maximum amount he doubts she'd make it. He's seen plenty of people ripped up, bleeding out. Too many. 

He pulls gauze from one of his pouches anyway.

"Gonna bind you up, get you to the doc," Clint tells Muriel, trying to lean her up.

"It's way too late for that, dumbass. Was way too late before you even got there. It's not on you." She grabs his face hard with a bloody hand. "You hear me?! It's not on you. Tell me you understand." Her nails bite into him a bit. 

He swallows hard. "I understand."

"Abuela!" Alicia calls from next to the dwelling and starts to step forward. 

"Stay back, little bug! Stay back!" the old woman calls, waving the girl away. "Grandma loves you. Grandma loves you so much. You're such a good girl. But I need you to stay back and when I'm gone, do what Clint says." 

"You're not going anywhere! I'm gonna get you to the doc..." the archer starts, trying to lift her again.

"Shut up and listen. You tell Luis... that he's a little shit and I rue the day I met him." She grins. "Those exact words." Her smiles fades. "You look after him. And Alicia. And Buck...he...gave me back...my mind...and I..." 

Her words trail off into mumbling and then her eyes go blank, her breathing stops. 

"Fuck! Fuck!" Clint rasps, checking her pulse. 

CPR?

There's more blood on her clothes than in her. It's all over his hands, his boots where he squats next to her in the wet dirt. 

"Mister," the teenage boy says quietly and points. 

Another gray thing is stalking slowly towards them, moonlight glinting off its eyes and teeth through the parted clouds. 

"Nobody move," Clint barely whispers, slowly raising his bow, arrow at the ready.

His broken hand is shaking so badly. He's not ambidextrous, not by a long shot, but passable shooting with his other hand. On a good day. He could never hold the bow steady now with his busted up left even if his right were better at aiming the arrow. 

There's no time to switch grip anyway. It's here.

He fires and, for the first time since he was a boy, he misses. The explosive arrow head blows up half the side of a shanty, which collapses and lights up.

There's no time to feel sorry for his almost-neighbor or angry at himself, because the thing is on him. 

Clint gets his arms up just in time to keep it from latching on to his neck. It buries its teeth in one of his forearms, the sickening stench of its gray-green body making bile come up in his throat. The bite burns instantly, and he can feel the muscle in his forearm twitch and seize. It's awful, worse than any physical pain he has ever felt. The agony wipes out his senses, his logic, and all he can do is kick and scream. 

There's a loud boom, and something wet raining onto his face. When his vision clears, the teeth finally out of him, he realizes the teenager is standing over him, holding the smoking shotgun. The creature is on the ground next to him screeching with half its head blown off. It's still alive. Clint grabs the shotgun from the hyperventilating boy, rolls, presses the barrel to what is left of the thing's face and fires again and again and again until it's empty. With immense effort, he drags the twitching body over to the burning shanty and throws it into the flames, just to be safe. 

Finally, he can't keep the liquid in his stomach down anymore. The archer falls to his knees, vomits up stomach acid and then dry heaves for a while. His bitten arm feels like someone has pressed it to a hot plate and when he looks down, he can see his veins have turned black around the wound. He manages to fish the keys to his front door from one of the pouches on his belt, offers them to the older kid, and points at his dwelling several buildings down before collapsing in the dirt.


	116. I keep on fallin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zola tries to cover all angles.

Zola is sitting in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, calmly surveying the chaos on and inside the glass block wall surrounding Claptrap with his inhuman eye sight and hearing. Cage after cage has fallen from the sky into the settlement, each one followed by the boom of it slamming into the closely packed dwellings. 

His cock has been in the mouth of the young man he'd so enjoyed fucking that first day after his transformation (and had several more times since, along with many of the other drinkers) since they arrived at Claptrap. Zola had been trying to enjoy himself, but it's been difficult since he got the garbled message about the junkyard thirty or so miles away. About the box. And then was met with only silence by the unit he'd sent to investigate the signal. It was a safe assumption it was a trap, but it was worth looking into. A small scouting party was already sent out to check on the battalion's situation. Still, it had nagged at him enough to distract him from the hot wetness around him. 

He'd decided to enjoy all the drinkers had to offer while it lasts - his metamorphosis after he takes the blue serum could break his connection with them after all. It won't be hard to convince them to still follow him - he'll be even more powerful than he is now, perhaps the most powerful being on the planet - but this sort of behavior may be a duty for them rather than an honor. They'll lack that obsessive enthusiasm he so enjoys. And none of them are more eager or energetic in pleasing him than the young man whose head is bobbing in his lap. 

Knowing his red and gray creations are wreaking havoc inside the settlement finally perks up his libido. He's not a sadist per say, not interested in causing individual physical pain, but he's certainly rock hard now at the thought of how shocked and utterly unprepared they most likely were for this type of biological warfare. The creatures will kill many, disorganize the others, help assure his ultimate victory. His hand goes to the back of the young man's head, applies gentle pressure. The drinker gets the hint to go deeper, gags on his cock loudly as he takes it into his throat, his movements finally stuttering even though he diligently keeps sucking. Zola gently pulls the young man off.

"Is your jaw or neck sore?" Zola asks kindly - he doesn't _need_ to be nice to them to keep their devotion, but he feels like a magnanimous ruler tending to his loyal subjects while doing it. 

"Yes sir, but I can keep going," the drinker insists, sitting up. 

"Would you like me to fuck you instead?" Zola questions, calm and even, as his hand curls around the young man's jaw.

"Yes, sir! Yes, please," he answers excitedly, undoing his pants almost immediately. 

Zola leans to wrap an arm around him, enjoying using his immense strength, his new size, and pulls the younger man onto his lap. He turns him to face out the windshield, back to the doctor as he licks a wet stripe up the side of the drinker's neck.

"Their silly little junktown is already in pandemonium and we haven't fired a single shot," he whispers into the young man's ear, getting a soft giggle in response.

"They're no match for your brilliance, sir." 

Zola hums pleasantly at that, hooking his fingers into the young man's waistband and sliding his pants down past his knees. He leans the drinker forward so his chest and hands are against the huge dashboard, his perky ass on display, and runs a finger down his crack - he's slick there. 

"Did you ready yourself for my cock earlier?"

"Yes, sir," the drinker responds shyly. "I hoped you'd bless me with it again." 

"Such a good boy," the doctor purrs as he pulls the young man back by the hips onto his erection, breeching him slowly - he's even tighter than the other times, so he didn't spend much time prepping, but he's more than lubed enough to ease in. 

Zola can see even more black smoke rising from the settlement now, his sight excellent even in the relative darkness. He hears the Claptrappers' screams and smiles, starts to set a leisurely pace moving the younger man forward and back on his cock, only sliding half in at first. 

"What's your name?" the doctor asks softly. 

"I'm unworthy to t-t-tell you, sir," the drinker responds, quivering as the doctor slides over his sensitive spot - that answer pleases Zola. 

"Nonsense. Tell me," the doctor says, soft but stern, starting to rock his hips up as he pulls the young man back, filling him a bit deeper each time. 

"Uhhhh!" the drinker moans. "N-n-nathan, sir...."

"I like that name. I have a very special task for you, Nathan." 

"I'd do anything for you. Anythiiiiihhhhh!" 

That seems like an accurate statement, given the doctor is now balls deep inside him. He keeps moving, pushing up as he draws him down, stuffing him full again and again. 

"Did you see Steve Rogers, when he and his friends attacked our city?" 

"Y-yes, sir. I tried to... to...uhhhh... to stop them, sir. But I...uhhhh...was knocked out." Nathan's body tenses, his hole becoming a vice that's almost uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I failed, sir."

"Nonsense, Nathan," Zola coos, stilling his movement. "I'm sure you did your best. So many of the others like you lost their lives. You were very lucky to survive. I'm very pleased to have someone I can trust to give this task to."

"Please, sir, tell me what you'd like me to do!" Nathan pants, obviously uncomfortable now that his body is a fist around Zola's length. 

"First I want you to take a deep breath and hold it in." 

The younger man's lungs fill full and stay inflated for a long moment.

"Good. Now, let it out slowly and relax yourself. Everywhere." 

When Nathan complies, his body softening, loosening, the doctor takes up a slow rhythm inside him again. "There, isn't that better?" 

"Y-yes, sir. It feels so good, sir."

"Good, Nathan, that's good." 

Zola just pumps into him silently for a few minutes, enjoying Nathan's breathy sounds as the drinker relaxes even further, starts to take the doctor deep again with ease. 

"When the fighting starts," the doctor finally says, "the real fighting on the ground, I don't want you in your armor." 

"Sir?" 

"Its markings will identify you as one of us, especially to the Winter Soldiers." Unless Nick Fucking Fury or Jasper Goddamn Sitwell had the creatures memorize every single resident, he assumed telling them to kill anyone with the X was the easiest way to sort them out. "The people in Claptrap don't all know each other well by sight. They have many new members, people taken from our city. You'll pretend to be on their side. Even kill others among my Followers if you need, to secure the illusion." 

"S-s-sir?" Nathan whimpers, Zola fucking him steadily now, sliding over his prostate with each thrust. 

"You will have one main goal. Find and capture Steve Rogers and bring him to me. Alive. Do. You. Understand?" He punctuates each of the last three words with a harder thrust. 

"Yes, sir, of course sir," Nathan pants, voice going higher as he arches his back, popping his hips up. 

"You enjoy being fucked with more force, don't you?"

"Y-y-yes sir!" 

Zola rises up into a half crouch, grips him harder, starts to take him more roughly. Nathan devolves into a moaning mess sprawled over the deep dashboard, hands now splayed against the windshield to keep from getting his face driven into it as he's rocked forward. 

The doctor hears the Winter Soldier they call Buck cry out in pain. One of the grays must have gotten him, venemous little things. He cannot wait to destroy him and the others like him - they are all that threaten his power, his domination of this land - and the thought of their demise, of his ultimate supremacy, turns him on even more. 

Zola folds himself over Nathan, fucks him with inhuman speed, still careful not to break him with his immense strength. The young man wails with enjoyment, practically hyperventilates, obviously close. The doctor bends to nuzzle at the drinker's bicep, push his arm out a bit, and bites into the soft skin of the drinker's inner arm. The fangs just graze Nathan's brachial artery, but they both find release immediately. 

Zola pounds him through their orgasms, spurting his load into Nathan as the younger man's hot, sweet blood sprays into his mouth, a perfect circuit. He will miss this. This taste. This physical connection. This type of pleasure. But being in the class of creatures that are the second most powerful just won't do. He needs to be at the pinnacle physically as he is mentally. 

After they're done riding out the aftershocks and Zola has removed his fangs, he pats Nathan gently on the hip.

"Go tend to that wound, wash yourself and ready yourself for your task. Find a rifle to carry. Few of them will have automatic weapons."

"Thank you for everything, sir. I won't fail you." Nathan smiles at him with naked, glowing adoration as he pulls up his pants, then leans in and - blushing - kisses Zola's cheek. 

"Send someone to clean this up," the doctor says pleasantly enough as he waves a hand at the mess all over the dash and floor - he puts himself away, then slides his hands behind his head and listens to the crackle of buildings burning down with a smile on his face. 

His communicator comes on suddenly.

"Sir, this is Delavan." He recognizes the voice of the three-stripe he had sent to investigate the signal. "Rogers and some others had a trap laid for us at the junkyard. They took out my unit. But they weren't expecting the follow up recon squad and we got the drop on them. We barely got away but we have it, sir. The crate. And a Winter Soldier. It's badly burned, but alive." 

"Excellent work. Bring the box and creature immediately," Zola responds. 

Were she taken hostage and under duress, a stupid person would have her lie and say there was no issues, that they had simply showed up, done a little digging and found the box. But a smart person would realize they need to account for the break in time with no communication, the lack of a full battalion of vehicles when she returns. They would have her tell part of the truth, but not all of it. 

Zola fully expects the truck to be filled with enemy soldiers when it approaches, perhaps some hiding beneath or within the cab, or to be rigged - he remembers in graphic detail the skinny blonde's love of explosives. The doctor has some of his Followers set up a checkpoint to thoroughly investigate the entire truck when it arrives, far from the main bulk of his army.

The flatbed vehicle with the tank-like treads makes an appearance in the distance soon after, flanked by two people on dirt bikes wearing Crossbones' symbol across their chest and helmets. He recognizes the bikers as part of the scouting party he'd sent out. On the back of the truck is the crate. Chained up inside the cab is a blackened Winter Soldier. He believes it is number 22. There doesn't appear to be anyone in the truck save Delavan driving, but he knows he can never be too cautious when it comes to Rogers. 

"I have a checkpoint set up a quarter mile southeast of our location," he tells Delavan. "Take the vehicle there. Slowly." 

Delavan diverts as ordered and for a moment he lets himself have the faint glimmer of hope that this will be the end of it. After he extracts Fury and Sitwell and eliminates the Soldiers with his new strength, he will just take his people and go, leave the savages to deal with whatever is left of the junktown (or lose and die themselves - it didn't matter to him once he had what he wanted; these junktownies were no threat to him without the Soldiers). 

He'll return with his Followers to the Xer city to build his new empire with Nick licking one boot and Jasper the other. Steve Rogers can get eaten with the other Claptrappers for all he cares. He would have been a useful tool to control Winter Soldier 23 if needed, but otherwise of no import to the doctor - the boy's vendetta was with Rumlow. 

The track truck is nearly to the checkpoint. Only a few more minutes. 

"Sir, we're coming in hot! We're being pursued!" Delavan suddenly barks over the communicator. 

Another dirt bike comes out of nowhere and throws a molotov cocktail on the windshield of the truck. 

Delavan diverts wildly, her visibility gone. A jeep pulls up beside the truck and he sees another Winter Soldier, 24, smash out the driver's side window and climb inside, force Delavan over, take the wheel. The truck, jeep and rogue cyclist form up, the latter vehicles firing at the recon unit cycles in pursuit, who are in turn firing at the truck. Their bullets do little damage to the tracks, don't slow it.

Drinkers run en masse towards the vehicle, eager to claim the crate for him.

The contents of the crate must be intact or the Claptrappers wouldn't bother trying to take the truck - they'd just grab 22 and make a quick escape in the other lighter, faster vehicles. They must plan to take the crate to the gate, to get inside. Zola is confident that even in that situation - needing to breach the wall and fight building to building - he would still win. But it will cost countless lives, well-trained fighters who will be difficult to replace, not to mention how much more assured his victory would be over the Soldiers and the ex-ops with his new abilities if he had the serum before he faced them.

"All units, advance now! Stop that vehicle! Get the crate!" he screams over his communicator.

Vehicles come alive and trucks full of soldiers start barreling towards the wall in a massive arc dozens wide, blasting past (and even over) drinkers in the rear of their crazed advancement. Many others on dirt bikes, in small off-road vehicles and finally on foot follow. Those trucks in the lead are not far from the track truck, and they're much quicker in the open scrub land. 

The big vehicle takes a hard right, narrowly avoiding a collision with a rusted out wreck half buried in sand in the scrubland, and the jeep and bike do the same. The maneuver is suspicious to Zola. They had wide open space in front of them, the gate nearly straight ahead. Why change their course so abruptly?

It occurs to him that the broken down vehicle looks almost too buried, as if the sand around it were placed there intentionally to make it look as if it had been there for years. He cannot imagine a man as fastidious as Jasper Sitwell allowing that to sit in his eyeline everyday not far from his town's wall, to be used as cover for a spy or sniper (both things the man had been as an operative). The doctor realizes that the junk vehicle is a marker seconds too late to stop what is about to happen. 

"Halt! Halt!" he screams over the communicator.

But it's too late. 

Even those trucks that slam on their brakes slide in the layer of sand constantly blowing across the scrub and end up right where the Claptrappers want them. Others don't react as quickly, or at all, rear-ending vehicles in the lead or flying past them. The drinkers swarm up as the vehicles slow. There's a series of cracking sounds and the ground gives way, vehicles falling into a massive trench. Only a narrow land bridge next to the junk vehicle the track truck, jeep and bikes had driven so close to remained solid. A flaming arrow flies from the wall into the junk vehicle and it blows, the strip of solid ground there collapsing as well.

Zola hears a whistle in the distance. On the wall, he sees someone running with a torch, lighting up a long row of arrows. There's another whistle, and dozens of archers are drawing back, a third whistle and they're releasing. Flaming arrows rain into the trench, and it sets on fire. The unmistakable smell of burning motor oil fills the air. 

In a single miscalculation, he has lost nearly a third of his forces. Soldiers and drinkers crawl out of the trench, screaming as they burn. He blocks out the pain from those linked to him as it tries to worm in at this proximity. 

The track truck stops forty feet from the gate. The crate on the back opens, and Winter Soldier 21 stands up inside - a WS series rocket launcher on his shoulder. A rocket blasts towards the lead truck, Zola diving out and running, hurtling Followers in his path into the air as he flees. The vehicle blows spectacularly, the shockwave still knocking him on his face. Multiple other explosions ring out within seconds, and he turns to see the trebuchets are blown to pieces. 

The doctor stands, dusts himself off, looks to the track truck and other vehicles. They're all stopped - even the recon bikers. They remove their helmets. One of them is a young man with a dark, curly mohawk, who fits the description of someone seen in the Xer city with the Claptrappers. The other is Steve Rogers. The blonde flips him off with both hands. 

"I knew Rogers from before," Delavan says over the communicator. "I never could stomach what Rumlow did to him, but I told myself it was better than him doing it to me. I always thought it was more important to be on the side that won than the side that was right. But the kid made me realize if _you_ end up like a God, no one wins. Brock was brutal, a sadistic monster, but at the end of the day he was happy to be a warlord. To own his little slice of this continent. But you. You'll only be satisfied if every last person on the face of this earth is under your thumb. I'd rather die than sit by and let that happen." 

Zola grits his teeth, takes his stupid lenseless glasses off and throws them. 

"You can still live his dream," she continues. "Take your people, take your abilities, go back to your city and never come near here again. Keep your power over those who want you to have it. Keep your miserable life. Live like a king. But if you try to come through this wall, we will do everything it takes to end you." 

The flames and smoke from the trench, billowing off his burning Followers, blocks out his vision of everything past it.

The doctor has changed his mind. Steve Rogers is most definitely leaving this place in chains, after he watches his friends and his lover die screaming.


	117. Shootin' at the walls of heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wall provides advantage to those atop it, but not all inside are safe.

"Open the gate!" Fury yells over his transponder the second the open portion of the trench around Claptrap goes up in flames.

The fire quickly spreads under the other sections of meticulously laid plywood, sheet metal and heavy canvas staked into the ground, all of it covered in sand and scrub grass dug up and meticulously replanted. Soon nearly all of the camouflage materials collapse into the eight foot deep waterless moat circling the entire community. Coming up with the resources to line the whole thing with spikes - like the pit for trapping Buck at the reavertown that had given them the idea - would have been a real challenge, but lighting up those trapped inside wasn't out of the question. 

They had plenty of used motor oil they'd been hoarding in the hopes Simon's project to recycle it would pay off and had covered the ground inside the trench with anything plastic they could find - disposable tablecloths, the bottoms of milk jugs, tarps - to coat or fill with oil. Once the fire in the trench really got going it lit up the tires of the fallen vehicles, detonated their gas tanks, set off munitions inside and on the bodies of the dead. They can hear the loud pop pop pop of bullets bursting from their casings. A grenade detonates somewhere in the flames and collapses part of the walls of the trench on those inside. 

Steve and the others rush their new vehicles in the gate and it's quickly closed behind them. The sound of the high powered rifles Jasper and the others have ring out again and again. The trench was built fifty feet within the "kill line" - the distance wherein the Xers would be in range of the typical weapons on Claptrap's wall - so they are busily picking off those turning back from the trench and those who escape it. It's a mercy for most of the latter, their bodies engulfed in flames when they climb out. Those who come up on the side facing the junktown, and the few who made it over the trench before the coverings collapsed, have nowhere to go except back into the flames or towards the wall. Most try to run in a circle in the no man's land between - they are fish in a barrel for those with the more typical rifles and the archers - but some charge the wall. Those who can't shoot are still ready above, raining down chunks of twisted glass, rocks and molotov cocktails on the invaders.

Monet is hauling the last of the red and gray corpses up the wall and tossing them off while the others give her a wide berth. A few well-placed firebombs are tossed into the pile, lighting them up. No one wants to risk the headless or brainless things contaminating any humans or the soil inside the wall, let alone somehow reanimating. Other Claptrappers move their fallen comrades onto tarps - they count at least thirty dead here, ten more taken to the infirmary, and have no idea how many more may have been injured or killed by the creatures that landed further in the settlement. 

One of the badly bitten corpses sits back up, and they quickly realize it's no longer human - it moves to bite the person next to it, mouth oozing black sludge. Monet decapitates it, then all the other dead who were bitten, just to be sure. After a bit of deliberation, and a few words said over the bodies, they're added to the flaming pile outside the wall. 

Buck is up off the ground and over to Steve in an instant once he sees him, lifting the mechanic and kissing him hard. He quickly puts him back down as Steve smiles and giggles in an embarrassingly lovestruck way, hands going to the bigger man's shoulders. The blonde suddenly finds himself half holding the Soldier up as he slumps forward. 

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" the mechanic asks with concern, struggling to support the bigger man. 

"Zola launched some of his creatures over the wall. This disgusting grayish thing bit him," Vic informs the mechanic, slipping under one of the Soldier's arms to support him. "We got the wound flushed and had him...eat...So it healed up, but he's a little unsteady on his feet still."

"What did he drink?" Steve asks Vic with concern, hand on the side of Buck's face.

"We gave him some corpses like Clint said. Ones not bit by the gray things. Took some cajoling to get him to," the barman offers, shooting Buck a look Steve knows well as it's been directed at him many times - _ so damn stubborn_, it says.

"They are our people. I _knew_ them," the brunette offers sadly, brows drawing down. 

Steve gives him a sympathetic look and leans up on tip toe to kiss him softly on the cheek. When he goes back to flat footed (and, lord, he actually is flat footed on top of having scoliosis and weak joints), Nick is standing there glowering with his arms crossed. 

"Rogers!" 

The mechanic swallows hard, almost a gulp, like he's about to get grounded. But then he steels himself, juts his chin out defiantly. 

"Fury," he responds tersely, already preparing his counter argument to whatever Nick may have to say.

The tall, bald man just stares for a long time, good eye glinting mischievously as he breaks into a grin.

"Never knew you could ride a motorcycle," Nick offers by way of reconciliation. 

"I'm a man of many talents," the mechanic returns, smiling. "Speaking of talented men, I need to congratulate Clint on that coordination with the flaming arrows. Perfect timing and every shot hit its mark. He really handled his people well. Where is he anyway? Don't see'im up there," Steve comments as he scans the catwalk atop the wall.

"Barton did the training, but he wasn't there to give the order," Nick huffs. "Damn fool broke rank and ran off after we got a walkie call from the dining hall about one of those _things_, even though he knew I'd already sent some of my best people to deal with it." 

"And have you heard from your _best_ people?" Luis asks snottily, joining them after busying himself getting the Soldiers set up to defend the settlement, moving most of their cash of weapons to the top of the wall. 

"No, but I'm sure they're handling it."

"And Clint?" Steve queries. "You hear anything else from him?"

"He cut out," Nat calls down, still firing her rifle, returning quickly after to giving the unit of civilians under her command orders. 

"How long ago? Did you send anyone to look for him?" Win demands, staring down the one-eyed man. 

"I was a little preoccupied," Nick offers, gesturing to the massive scratches one of the reds left across his chest and arm. 

"I should go and ensure he is safe," Buck offers, trying to fully stand on his own.

"No fucking way," Luis and Steve say in unison, turning briefly to eyeball each other after.

"You need to eat more, Winter. Here," Luis offers his wrist up to the big brunette. "Just take as much as last time." 

"Woah, that's not a good idea. You have certain, ahem, responsibilities," the mechanic insists, side-eyeing Red, who had followed Luis back down off the wall. 

"Oh, okay, so we're just telling Fury everything now," Luis grits out at Steve's insinuation he was in charge of the Soldiers. "Fresh is what he needs to recover faster and I'm used to him feeding on me more than anyone else is. Plus with _what's in your backpack_, it shouldn't be you." 

Buck and Nick look at each other knowingly, each expecting the other to make a move for Steve's bag. Neither does.

"Keep all your blood, children. I'll deal with _dinner_," Vic muses, offering his wrist, which Buck hesitantly takes. "Now that I know you can do this and not kill me."

"I will only take a little," Buck assures him, then bites.

"Keep what's in that motherfuckin' backpack hidden. Put it up your asses if you have to," Nick demands.

"What if instead of hiding them, we use them up?" Steve asks suddenly.

"Lookin' to run the show, Rogers?" Nick quips.

"The materials the vials are made from are indestructible. We already had him try to smash them." Steve gestures at 21. "So the only way to get out what's inside is to use them."

"Rogers, you really feel like you know _anyone_ well enough to trust them with that kind of power? I don't. Not even myself," Fury reasons.

"Hear me out. This shit was crazy expensive to make, right? Buck said that's part of why the doc got in trouble. So I can only imagine that the dose in each vial is the minimum amount needed to get the desired effect. There's only two of each color." 

"That is correct for the blue," Buck replies once he's released Vic - he takes the barman's hand and smiles up at him after in thanks. "It would most likely cause changes within the realm of natural human physiology at a minimal dose. But even a small amount of the red could cause significant, unpredictable mutations. Regardless, the way the vials function, as soon as the syringe is depressed, they provide instant, full dose administration. You could not give small shots to multiple people. The same style was used to administer drugs to us in the field." 

"What if we gave each serum vial to a corpse and then burned all four of them up?" Luis asks, eyeing the few bodies left which had no bite marks and were spared the fire. 

"There is no way to know what either would do to a corpse. It may even revive them," Buck offers.

"Wait, it could bring one of them back?" Steve asks urgently, looking over the bodies slashed by the reds - he recognizes poker buddies, neighbors, ag workers, parents of small children. 

"But we don't know as what," Nick counters. "Besides, you really wanna just pick some of our dead buddies to give this shit to? Same problem with picking a living person. Even if they don't turn out a mindless freak, you have no idea who they'll become given that kind of power."

"Okay, okay. Probably best not to play god. But could we inject it into some_thing_ instead of someone, then dose it out? To everyone. The blue at least. That's what Zola really wants and it's the bigger threat," Steve posits. 

"True," Buck agrees. "Even he cannot know what the red would do to him or others, and it would most likely not reverse his current condition, only build upon it. The formulation he used to make the red creatures appears to be different from the red serum, specialized, focused on mutating very specific sections of code as they all had similarities. He seemed to have come close to perfecting it." Buck eyes Monet, far more advanced than the others like her and seemingly mostly herself mentally. "But it has finite limits, a stable end product. The red serum does not. Zola would be far less likely to risk using it on himself, and whatever it creates could be easier to deal with at least than what I know the blue will create." 

"Buck, what do you think it would do, the blue? If we could dilute it enough to give everyone here a dose," Fury questions.

"It acts first to perfect the subject on a genetic level, then enhancements build from there. A small dose would most likely alter irregularities in genetic code but the body would burn through it before it could do much beyond that." 

"Alter how?" Win asks.

"Perfect senses, heal or lessen genetic based disorders, possibly speed healing mechanisms or reflexes. It would depend on the individual and their condition," the Soldier offers. 

"So, the more problems someone has, the more sick or debilitated they are, the more likely it is the serum will just fix those issues and not enhance them?" Luis queries. 

"That makes sense based on my knowledge of his research. A person in ideal health, with peak human senses, would possibly still experience minor metahuman enhancements with a small dose. An individual with a genetic disorder causing systemic issues, as an example, would probably have that portion of their code repaired and not experience any alterations beyond subsequent reversal of the issues' effects. Someone in moderate health with, say, weak eyesight would have their vision perfected and see other improvements, but nothing outside of the normal realm of human ability." 

"How sure are you of this?" Nick demands. "A few overheard conversations don't make you an expert."

"Zola liked to talk, as he worked on me," Buck says with a tinge of fear in his voice, lifting his metal arm and flexing his ridged fingers. "I was a...captive audience, as you would say. He discussed his work in great detail, over many months. Who could I tell his secrets to, after all?" 

"Okay, okay, this could work for the blue," Fury concedes. "We'll figure out the red later. You got an idea of what to put the blue in?" 

"It must feel like injecting flesh or it will not work. The syringe mechanism is sensitive to pressure," Buck offers. "You could not just stick it in a water jug, for example." 

"There still melons in the walk in?" Steve asks Vic, who nods.

"Heh heh, melons," Win adds. She sighs, looks at Luis.

"We'll find Clint," the green-eyed man promises. "Once we've got the blue taken care of. Don't worry. He's a tough bastard. Don't see Happy and his gang around either. Maybe they're together." 

"I should go with you," Buck insists.

"You're helping run the defense of this place, remember?" Fury snarks. "And you're still sitting down, which says to me you need to eat more. Then get back to your post."

"We'll take Red. We'll keep Steve safe," Luis assures Buck. "Washington and Ramos will stay with you. I've got them all set up." He juts his chin towards the wall where 22 and 24 are sending controlled bursts of machine gun fire at the Xers below. 

Win adds, "I already have most of my kids on Soldier duty here in case there's fire. We'll take two with us, for Red." 

Steve's hand slides to the side of Buck's face. Buck covers it with his own, rubs his cheek against it, kisses the blonde's palm. A hundred things transmit between them as they touch and nothing more needs to be said aloud. Still, they part again reluctantly. Steve, Luis and Win head off with Red, the big ginger locked and loaded with a huge amount of weapons and ammunition from the crate.

Surprisingly, Fury offers his wrist to Buck. The Soldier knows how integral the one-eyed man is to running their defense, both of them knowing he can only take a little. But it's symbolic. A truce. Showing the other residents Buck is one of them, to be trusted and helped. Nick knows Buck could have attacked any of them and took what he needed to get strong, could have nabbed the serums from Steve as soon as he arrived, took the weapons and the other Soldiers and escaped, left them to their fate. 

But the Soldier had made no such moves, had not even asked about the vials or armaments when they returned from the yard. He had only wanted to know Steve and the others were safe. Nick begrudgingly admits that this experiment, this creature, this Winter Soldier, is a person. A good person. More Claptrappers come down off the wall after seeing Nick, a few at first, then there's a little line. 

Buck drinks his fill, careful to only take a little from each, thanking them all one by one. He is soon close to feeling normal, just a bit stiff. The area still hurts where he was bitten, but there is no sign of where the wound had been, no discoloration to his veins. He rejoins the others atop the wall, rearms himself from the Soldiers' supplies, then orders an ammunition count and sets about preparing for the next wave of attack.

All the Xers within the kill line are now dead and the rest stuck outside the flaming pit ringing the settlement. Through the slowly thinning smoke, he can see Zola watching him. His people are regrouped, standing in silence, each with arms raised, forearms crossed in an X.


	118. Corazón de melón

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Steve Rogers bday, y'all! Happy 4th. 
> 
> But he isn't the star of this chapter 🤣

Steve and the others can see the black smoke from the dining hall when the moon shines bright through a break in the clouds - they agree to divert there before heading to The Claptrap. Happy is piling cases of food a safe distance from the structure, his face streaked with blood, soot and black goo, and a lone fireman is using one of the massive hoses. Half the place is engulfed in flames.

"Is there anyone inside?" Luis queries urgently.

"No one alive," Hogan responds. "Did a quick check and tried to empty the pantry but the smoke is thick as fuck in there. I didn't get much."

"Did you see..." Win starts, stops, swallows. "Is Barton in there?" 

Luis and Steve both note her calling him Barton, something she rarely if ever does. She's already building her wall. Calling him Clint is admitting to herself he's someone familiar - someone _close_ \- and she can't do that if she's about to find out he's dead on the kitchen floor.

_ _"Nah. I saw him here earlier, before I went to find Pete, but he must have taken the survivors here somewhere for safe keeping. Dumbass left the back door open. May as well just pour gasoline on the fire if you're going to give it all that oxygen. My people... They weren't so lucky. We heard the screams when we were headed from the autoshop back to the wall and those things..." Hogan trails off. _ _

_ _"Where's the other two hose crews, Pete?" Steve demands of the fireman. "Most of our food is in there!" _ _

_ _"No shit, Sherlock," the bulky middle aged guy with a very cliche thick moustache returns. "Pump 1 seized up and we blew the coupling weld on pump 3."_ _

_ _"Told you to ease the pressure on slow!" Win insists. "Said welds wouldn't hold a hard, fast jolt like that!"_ _

_ _"Well sorry, lady, this isn't exactly what I'm used to workin' with! Those things came at us and we had to crank'em on to keep them back. There's only two more of the hose crew even left. One of those red things took out the others before we got it with the axes. Suppression packs were emptied on the sheriff's station and some of the extinguishers were too old. Duds. Used up what was left in here. Hoses are all we got. Other guys are tryna get 1 going again. What's left of the shovel crews are tryna use dirt to put out the shanties."_ _

_ _"Fuck!" Steve rasps. _ _

_ _"You lot gonna go do something about it'r stand here and bitch?" Pete scoffs._ _

_ _Steve turns to eye Luis, an intense, considering look on his face. He takes off the backpack. _ _

_ _"Buck trusts you completely. With his life. With all our lives. So I'm going to too, despite..." He trails off, not sure how to put his jealousy into words, part of him very aware of how silly he's being even as Bullhead is screaming at him that this person is his enemy. Steve pulls out the red vials covertly, pockets them, then shoves the bag at the green-eyed man. "Me'n'Win gotta deal with the pumps and hoses. You know what to do with the blue. Take 21 and the kids, get it done." _ _

_ _"No way! Winter'll freak if you don't have protection. I'll have Red go with you guys." _ _

_ _"What's in that bag is priority over us. Besides, I can handle monsters." Win opens a cargo pocket, shows off two grenades taken from the asset crate, one of the few weapons within that didn't require a Soldier to use. She's got a handgun in her waistband and she and Steve both have rifles strapped over their shoulders. The welder gives Luis that cocky, invincible smile, grabs him and kisses him hard. "Now go!" she says, half-laughing at his sheepish grin. _ _

_ _Luis heads farther up the hill, eyes peeled and hand on the grip of his gun, even though he's a terrible shot. The moonlight cuts in and out, forcing him to use the night vision on the goggles as the kids cling together with him in a line behind Red, who can see perfectly in the pitch black. 21 halts and Luis peeks around to see a shape on the ground. The dirt around it is dark with what looks like black blood, but it's hard to tell. He sucks in a deep breath, raises his weapon._ _

_ _"Red, check them out. Be careful. It could be one of those things. Don't let it bite you." _ _

_ _The big ginger approaches cautiously, sniffs loud._ _

_ _"They are human." He bends to roll them. It's Muriel, her guts half spilled out. "The woman is deceased." _ _

_ _Luis drops the binoculars, claps a hand to his mouth, falls to his knees as he muffles a feral sound with his palm. He hits himself in the top of the thigh with the butt of the gun grip, hard. _ _

_ _All he can see is his mother. _ _

_ _There'd been a small gas leak in the basement for years. They had told the super again and again. Then the collapse came, and there were so many people displaced, fleeing some other neighborhood where fires and intense violence had broken out, and they started living in the basement. One must have lit up something too close to the leak. Damn idiot, not recognizing the smell. _ _

_ _The floor of their apartment had practically been vaporized when the gas pipes running under it blew. He'd been on the fire escape, smoking a joint, trying to drown out reality, but it had found him. He clung to the side of the sagging building after it stopped rocking violently, looking back through the window down into the gaping maw where the only home he'd ever known had been. He could see what was left of his mother in the hole. Water was raining down on her from broken pipes and she was half covered in large debris, her chest blown out and one of her arms missing. _ _

_ _It took him two days to get her body out, one more to haul her to the park and dig her grave with his hands. He put her next to where they'd buried his sister when she'd died from the bug three weeks before - every morgue and funeral home was so overfilled collection details to take the plague victims to mass graves had started, but they'd stopped too a few months ago. People had long since gave up on trying to properly dispose of bodies. The park grounds were riddled with fresh graves. Hundreds._ _

_ _The gun is pulled from his grasp before it can slam down for the dozenth time. He looks up to see Red, jack-o'-lantern orange eyes glowing brighter as the moon returns behind more dense cloud cover, his goggles pushed up on his forehead but his mask still in place. He's holding Luis' gun by the top of the barrel. _ _

_ _"What are you doing?" Luis screams at him, face wet, nose running. _ _

_ _"I am directed to protect you. You were harming yourself." _ _

_ _"Fuck you!" the smaller man yells, voice crackling, as he jumps to his feet, is allowed to grab the gun back. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you! She should have never been involved in this! This fucking place! This fucking war!" he rages, slamming his fists against the big Soldier's flak vest. _ _

_ _The teens - barely visible in the inky night - just stare, open-mouthed, one now holding his binoculars. Luis tries to get himself together, takes a step back, wipes his face with both hands. _ _

_ _"I'm sorry," the green-eyed man rasps, looking up into bright orange irises. It never even occurs to him that he doesn't need to apologize, that Red shouldn't really be _aware_ enough for something like that to register. Luis hates himself when he's a dick to someone who doesn't deserve it; that someone being a microchipped vampire super soldier is neither here nor there to him. "I'm sorry, Red."__

__ "I can smell Clint on her clothing," Red offers calmly. "His scent is altered, but I am certain it is him with ninety-five percent accuracy." _ _

_ _"What do you mean, altered?" Luis queries. _ _

_ _21 gestures to a headless gray thing nearby, now visible as the moon brightens. _ _

_ _"Most likely injection of its toxin," 21 explains. _ _

_ _Buck had explained to all of them what the thing had done to him at the Xer city and Red had briefly seen and smelled the bodies near the wall._ _

_ _"Can you..." Luis takes a wavering breath, trying to keep his voice under control. "Can you track Clint?" _ _

_ _"Yes."_ _

_ _Red leads Luis and the others to Nat and Clint's house. Luis should have realized already this was the obvious choice, but he was turned around in the poor light, the shanties all looking so similar. His own (Greta's) is nextdoor after all. Luis calls, knocks, but there's no answer. A younger teenage boy with glasses shoots an arrow into 21's leg as soon as he breaks in the door. Thankfully, it's not explosive. It didn't sink in much either - the kid can't pull the string back far on the big, compound bow. _ _

_ _"Woah, woah! He's on our side," Luis insists from half behind the Soldier. "He's a Winter Soldier."_ _

_ _"Like Buck. You're... You're his friend, Luis," the boy offers, lowering the bow. _ _

_ _"Luis!" he hears Alicia call - in the corner there's a little barricade made of the upturned bed frame, mattress and kitchen table and her voice - high and scared and raw - comes from behind it. _ _

_ _"Close the door," he tells the teens with the fire gear, then goes to the pile, slides the table aside. _ _

_ _There are over a dozen kids there huddled around an electric lantern, some he recognizes and some not. Alicia runs to him, crying hard._ _

_ _"Abuela! It killed abuela!" she sobs into his shirt, tears wet on his stomach. _ _

_ _"Yo se, mija. Yo se," he coos softly, putting his arms around her heaving shoulders. "I'm here. I've got you." _ _

_ _He looks up to notice Clint behind the kids - the archer is laid out on a blanket on the floor, eyes closed, and Luis can't tell if he's breathing. Someone has stuffed rags under his vest in several places and they're all tinted deep red. Luis carefully extricates himself from the little girl._ _

_ _"Sweety, I need to check on my friend. I need you to be really brave for me and take the other kids over to that side of the room, okay? Get everyone loaded up with the food -" he gestures to the pile in the back of the room they must have brought from the pantry - "and ready to go. Can you do that for me?" _ _

_ _She nods._ _

_ _He crouches next to Clint, covertly points his handgun at the bigger man's temple, just in case, even though he hates himself for it. The corpses by the wall that had bite marks - one of them had sat back up. It was no longer human. No longer aware. A mindless beast. He has to protect the kids. Even from a person he..._ _

_ _Luis checks Clint's pulse. It's weak but steady, and his skin is burning up, slick with sweat. The green-eyed man huffs in relief - not a corpse, not yet anyway. He lightly slaps Clint's cheek. _ _

_ _"Desperté! Desperté, cabrón," the smaller man utters, smacking the archer harder. "Wake up! Wake the hell up!" _ _

_ _Clint doesn't make a sound, doesn't move a muscle._ _

_ _"Puñeta," Luis curses softly._ _

_ _He checks beneath the rags and finds five punctures in each of the four areas, bleeding only sluggishly. They're not pretty, but not likely to be fatal. Clint's left hand is mangled and swollen, his elbow on that arm huge and dark like it was hit with a baseball bat. The archer's right forearm is crudely wrapped with gauze but it's soaked through with dark blood - the veins up and down his entire arm and into his neck, face and chest look black. The bite mark beneath the bandage is vile and practically gushes when he lifts the cloth a bit - he replaces it swiftly and pulls the lamp closer, bathing the archer in electric white light. Clint's skin looks vaguely yellowish and when Luis pulls up one of his eyelids, the area around the iris is discolored as well. _ _

_ _Luis bends and presses their foreheads together. _ _

_ _"Fuck, Clint," he whisper-sobs, then sits up, swallows hard, takes a deep breath, looks back at the Soldier, loitering behind him. "Red, assess his condition and advise the best way to utilize your blood to help him." _ _

_ _21 squats in a fluid motion, quickly reviews the archer's injuries and checks his vitals. _ _

_ _"Venous discoloration, necrotic tissue around the bite wound and high fever indicate a large amount of toxin was injected, causing cellular decay as it has entered his blood stream. His body is reacting like it has an infection, raising his temperature to burn it out. Jaundice indicates the liver is failing as it attempts to filter his blood and becomes saturated with the toxin. The best course of action is to give ninety percent of the maximum dose intravenously and ten percent directly into the liver."_ _

_ _"Do it," Luis instructs._ _

_ _The big redhead strips Clint out of his flak vest, takes a syringe from one of his many pouches - the Soldiers were all outfitted with them on the road, after Buck showed them how to utilize their blood to heal. They're already trained extensively in human anatomy, as it makes them more efficient killers, and it was easy to teach them where to inject, how deep, how much. It will take several full syringes before Red maxes out on how much he can safely give Clint. _ _

_ _ "Okay everyone," Luis says, standing and turning to the children as Red works. "Lee, you keep the bow and quiver. Get an arrow ready, just in case." Bless his photographic memory, because people always respond better when you know their name. "You're leading the kids." He turns to the teens. "Hasan, Maly, I need you to help keep track of them. Follow up at the end. Keep your eyes open. One of you use the binoculars. Anyone or anything comes at us, you spray them in the face with the suppression packs. We're all going to the Claptrap." _ _

_ _When Red is finished, Luis slides his arms under Clint and hoists him up. Red could carry him effortlessly but they need his hands free if there's trouble. The big Soldier has his weapon ready, constantly scanning the rooftops and small alleys created by the close proximity of the shanties. Soon their climbing the narrow, winding drive to the pub, then knocking to get in. One of the former dancers - Anna Marie - is barricaded inside, extinguisher at the ready. She's been flirting non-stop with Luis since he arrived and let's them in without hesitation._ _

_ _"Hey, sugah. When I thought we'd have kids, this isn't what I meant," she jokes with a wink. "Come on, you lot." _ _

_ _She gestures for the children and teens to move to the few tables that weren't turned on their end and screwed over windows or doorways, then gets some snacks from behind the bar and bottled water, distributes it. Finally, she brings a big crate over and lines it with a tablecloth, then takes Violet from the girl holding her and puts her in. The toddler had cried herself to sleep._ _

_ _Anna Marie moves to where Luis had laid Clint on the bar. He's toweling off the sweat running in rivelets down the sides of his face with a clean bar cloth as Red starts bringing out the supplies Luis has requested from the cooler. _ _

_ _"Not the wors'ah evah seen Barton, hones'ly," she quips in her syrupy thick Mississippi accent, trying to lighten the mood, though her cute face is lined with worry. "Guessin' he's nah sauced this time though." She puts a hand to his forehead. "Hell. He's on fire. He needs the doc." _ _

_ _"There is no medication they can provide that will counteract the toxin. My blood must run its course," Red states. "Moving him again with so many injuries is also not optimal. Carrying him reopened several clotted wounds."_ _

_ _"Alrigh'biggun," she offers, eyeing the big ginger with a slightly fearful expression. "Why're y'all...here? The messhall's safer. This place's'ah tinderbox." _ _

_ _"Messhall's probably ashes now. It was mostly engulfed when we saw it. These...creatures came over the wall. They killed most of the people there. Clint fought one." _ _

_ _"More than one," the kid - Lee - pipes up in his own much softer and harder to place Southern accent, still holding the bow. "We were trapped in the pantry by'ah red one. He saved us." _ _

_ _Red adds a large bucket of ice on the counter behind the bar now too along with bins of fruit from the cooler, several commercial blenders, a large knife and the vat with a spout Vic uses for Margarita Mondays. 21 takes a plastic bag full of other bags from beneath the counter. He partially fills one with ice, twists the excess plastic, ties it off and lays it over Clint's forehead, them starts to make another._ _

_ _"These will help with the fever," the big ginger offers, quickly completes ten makeshift ice packs, lays them on and against the archer. "I should disinfect and stitch his wounds." Red takes a medical kit from another pouch. _ _

_ _"I'll handle it," Luis insists, taking it as he hands Red the backpack. "You know what to do with the blue and the supplies?"_ _

_ _"Inject all serum into a cantaloupe. Cut up the cantaloupe and the other fruit. Blend with ice and water. Put in the vat." _ _

_ _Luis nods. _ _

_ _"Tha'prep table in'tha back. I's metal and freshly bleached. All sterile," Anna Marie offers. "Better'n this old splintery thing." She slaps the counter, then adds softly, "Kids shouldn' watch this anyway."_ _

_ _"Okay," Luis concedes. "Help me move him?" _ _

_ _Minutes later he's stitching Clint up as he listens to the blenders run and run and run._ _


	119. Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang furthers their plan to distribute the blue.

"Madre de dios, I'm happy to see you guys," Luis exclaims as he and Win strap the now-mostly-full beverage vat to Red. They already duct taped on the lid - they can't afford to waste the precious cargo if the Soldier needs his hands free, though the thought of him fighting when he's basically a living beverage dispenser is hilarious. 

"You can't give kids liquor!" Steve insists, arms crossed, as he watches them. "Even _Clint_ wouldn't do that!" 

"Sure you're happy to see _both_ of us?" the welder quips, flicking her eyes to the mechanic then back to Luis to roll them. "Already got laid today and he is still in such a mood." 

"Relax, _Captain America,_" the green-eyed man snarks. "I didn't get the kiddies wasted. Red mixed it up virgin. I had some, then I gave it to the kids and Clint, and _then_ I put the booze in."

"Why add booze at all?" the mechanic huffs. 

"Because everyone is gonna wonder why we're only giving them a double shot if it's non-alcoholic. They think it's just a fancy slushie, they'll be guzzling it."

"So you had to have some for yourself first, huh?" the blonde quips. 

"Genius, I could have just taken the injection, both the injections, if I wanted to be all super powered. Fuck, why did you give them to me if you think that?" 

Steve says nothing. Fuck, he hates how crotchety he is to Luis right now. All the time since the hotel honestly. It's like he's channelling all his fear, anger and anxiety at the other man. Maybe because Buck hadn't offered to give him the Soldiers' words, not that he really wanted that kind of responsibility. But still. Buck didn't trust him, after everything, and that wasn't fair.

....he had asked Luis to call Red during his argument with Fury though. 

He tells himself it wasn't to kill the one-eyed man. Just to scare him, restrain him maybe.

He's not sure that's true. 

He's not sure what's happening to him. He faced Brock, locked him away forever, and yet he's angrier than ever. More paranoid. 

"I just wanted to be sure the drink was safe," Luis continues. "Besides, Anna Marie freaked out." He eyes her sitting with the kids playing cards. "She thought I was trying to _death cult_ everyone with poisoned frozen daiquiris. So I drank mine and waited and when I didn't keel over..." 

"Did it help? Barton I mean?" Win interrupts, even though she's trying to sound nonchalant about the archer's condition.

"His fever went down, his heartbeat and breathing are stronger and his veins aren't as dark, but that could all be Red's blood." Luis shrugs. "He's made a few little noises, which is more than before, but nothing else." 

"Well, our first stop should be medical with this, so we'll take him there," the mechanic offers, forcing his bitchy tone to fade - after everything, he can't deny how much the green-eyed man cares about the archer and he tries to offer reassurance, to get his attitude under control. "I...Thank you. For helping him."

Luis nods.

"Red said it should be safe to move him now that his wounds are stitched and bandaged and he's stabilized. You're right about the medbay. Best to give the drink first to people we know it will, at best, keep alive instead of...changing them." 

Win comes over, hands Steve a double shot-glass, holding a meager two to three fluid ounces. She's still holding one of her own.

"What if it changes us?" the blonde asks quietly, looking down into the purplish concoction. 

"At least we're not giant dicks," the welder offers.

She holds hers up to cheers with Steve - after a long moment where he contemplates how utterly untrue that is of himself, he taps his cup to hers and they both drink, telling himself his laundry list of physical problems will more than use up the tiny bit of serum. 

"It's so diluted anyway. It made a hundred and fifty doses," the green-eyed man responds, running a hand through his sweaty mohawk. "Hopefully Buck is right and we're only looking at really minor enhancements for the few who are in ideal condition." 

"So we shouldn't give Natasha any?" Win jests. 

"Right," Luis agrees, grinning. "Woman is at the absolute top of her game."

"I saw her kill a man with a pencil once. It wasn't even sharpened!" Steve adds, trying to sound playful.

They all laugh, but it quickly turns nervous and fades.

"This is the right choice," the blonde says firmly, but his face falters after. "Right?" 

"We all just have to make the best choices in a bad situation," Luis offers, eyeing Clint as he rests on a pile of tablecloths on the ground. "Maybe this will be the difference between someone surviving an infection from a stab wound or not. Or not having their lungs give out from smoke. Or any number of other things that could happen when they come at us again."

Steve nods. Luis is right - this could give their people an advantage, even a small one, today and going forward. He stops to tousle Violet's hair before they go, as does Win. She says their names before going back to talking gibberish to the doll one of the kids made her from a cloth napkin and some rubberbands. Her tongue is purple. 

They leave the kids with Anna Marie, including Hasan - one of the teens with the suppression packs, just in case - and head to the medbay. Bruce and his lone nurse must be occupied because they walk in mostly unquestioned, tell a few fibs to the volunteer orderlies (who are happy for the strong, fruity shots and take Clint off their hands) and start dosing all the sick and injured. Steve gives two helpings to the lead gardener, now days from death from her advanced cancer despite the regular shots of Buck's blood they had started giving her months ago to slow it. If the people aren't conscious, Red coerces it down their throat with careful massage and pressure on reflex points.

Finally, they come to the last room - the OR. There are two tables, the white cloths covering them soaked in blood which drips to the floor.

On one is Wanda and the other Simon. 

They're both bitten multiple places, slashed. Wanda's chest is gouged deeply - the nurse is inserting a tube to keep her from drowning in her own blood. Bruce barks commands at a terrified orderly who frantically hands him supplies as he tries to staunch the blood flow from a huge wound in Simon's neck. The tall blonde is flatlining and his partner isn't far behind from the looks. 

Steve can only see the smiling face of their daughter, hear their words as they invite him to live with them, to care for Violet. As they give his life purpose, help him be a person again. He jolts forward, syringe of red serum in each hand, and injects them both in the leg. 

"Steve, what the fuck?" Luis barks, grabbing him and yanking him back, as the doctor offers them a confused glance and returns his focus quickly to Simon.

When Steve looks down at the glass vials he's still clutching they're empty. Buck was right - full dose was instant. 

The green-eyed man drags him from the room, spins him and pins him to a wall. "You have no fucking idea what that will do to them!" 

The sound of Simon's flatline just goes and goes.

"I...I...had to do something. Had to save them. They're... They're our family," he explains, desparate eyes flicking to Win for agreement and back.

Steve's voice is far too broken and soft, laced with fear, to let Luis stay angry. It's so unlike the blonde to be so emotionally raw, to back down from an argument or altercation. The green-eyed man slowly releases the mechanic, nods.

"You're... You're right. And I can't be a hypocrite," Luis responds quietly.

"What do you mean?" Win questions, brow furrowing.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. 

"I almost gave a blue vial to Clint, when I saw him like that." Luis shakes his head, steps back. "They're... They're really good people." 

Steve looks into his pretty green-eyes and for the first time in days doesn't feel pissed off. He's tired. He's so tired of all of this. He hugs Luis impulsively, hoping absently Buck can feel it, that it will make him happy. 

"We should keep going," Win offers quietly and the others separate, nod. 

Simon's flatline goes and goes.

Soon they're handing out tiny cup after tiny cup to those near and on the wall.

"A little liquid courage," they say when asked. 

"Something to wet your whistle," they offer. 

"You're allergic to pineapple? No, there's none of that in here," they assure. 

What they don't say is _this contains trace amounts of an astronomically expensive super serum designed by a brilliant madman and it will make alterations to your genetic code_. Nope. Not that. 

Not...

_This may fix your astigmatism. _

_It might reverse your osteoporosis. _

_It could cure your asthma, or inexplicably make you a better dancer when it enhances your natural sense of balance and hand-eye coordination without you realizing it. _

_This might cure the cancer you don't even know you'll get, the lingering time bomb in your DNA just waiting to unleash it upon you, now diffused._

_And if you don't really need any of those things corrected? Well. Maybe you'll end up better. Faster. Stronger. All that crap. And we'll cross our fingers you use it responsibly. And if you don't, we'll _deal_ with you, because we've had enough of mutated assholes fucking up our lives. _

No, they don't say any of that. 

If they live, it could be weeks or months before they know the real extent of what it will do to everyone. Buck thinks a full dosage would act very quickly, but he's not sure. It was never tested on a human subject, only cell cultures. Smaller doses may be slow to act and the changes, at first, subtle. 

After she drinks her dose, Monet shakes the empty double-shot glass at the vat as if to ask for more. Paul makes a pleading face - the petite man knows what Jasper knows about the blue and she's never far from him. Luis quietly gives her two more helpings, looking around to make sure no one sees. After he's moved on, she takes a towel from a pile of supplies, looks up at the sky, the moon, trying to get her bearings.

"What's she doing?" Vic asks. 

"Figuring out the direction of Mecca," Paul offers quietly as she puts the towel on the stony ground, drops to her knees on it, holds her hands up before her, then bends forward; she only says the word _penance_ again and again but it's clear from her tone and cadence she's saying a prayer.

The petite man is not of her faith, but he gets on his knees with her, crosses himself like he used to do in mass over twenty years ago. Vic takes a knee, clasps his hands together as he did in church with his grandmother when he was a boy, bows his head. They pray for their friend. Then they pray for all their friends.

Soon the drink vat is empty, even though not everyone was dosed, and removed from the Soldier. 

Steve, Win, Luis and Red head to the tallest windmill. The Soldier can easily defend from such a high point if needed and Luis can see with the binoculars, taken back from Maly, to give the other Soldiers orders. They're invisible from the ground on the maintenance platform. The others return to the top of the wall, weapons ready.

"We've got movement!" Luis calls over his headset. "On your two o'clock, Fury." 

A makeshift walkway is quickly slid over a section of the moat and Xers start pouring across. Some fall off into the fires as they cross and a few others are shot down as they take to the walkway, but the smoke makes visibility difficult for the snipers. They cluster on the Claptrap side of the pit, automatic weapons up, then travel in a large huddle, running full speed at the gate. Rifle corp, archers and snipers shoot, but many of the approaching Xers have helmets, riot shields and body armor. They seem to be protecting the few inexplicably unarmed men and women at the core of their cluster.

"Look at the bulk on those ones in the center!" Fury responds over his transponder. 

"22, 24. Disregard those shooting. Aim for those in the center of the group!" Luis instructs.

When the first few from the middle of the Xer cohort fall, the rest raise their riot shields and homemade metal barriers in an attempt to protect them. Those on the wall fire and fire - nearly two dozen are hit with return shots, some fatally. The enemy group dwindles, but still advances. Soon they're twenty feet from the gate, a hail of bullets, arrows, rocks and molotov cocktails being rained on the shields of the dozen Xers huddled below. 

Words are screamed above the din.

"What did they say?" Fury asks Buck, both desparately trying to get a good shot.

"_For his glory_," the Soldier supplies.

The middle of the cluster below explodes in a fireball, the unarmed man with the bulky vest rigged with explosives as they had feared. The blast decimates the remaining ring of Xers. It blows the gate to shreds, and splinters the glass wall on either side, sending dozens of Claptrappers to the earth below as sharp chunks of glass and steel impale dozens more. 

From their vantage on the windmill, Steve and the others can see Fury and Buck in the pile of debris below, huge glass shards sticking out of them everywhere. 

Through his rifle scope, Jasper watches more walkways being slid across the firey channel. Xers and reavers start to flood over as he fires.


	120. Take me to the airport, put me on a plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events preceeding the Collapse are revealed. 
> 
> ** Maybe don't read before bed or skip to the next chapter if you're really stressed about the current situation. This is bleak. Hugs.**

The higher-ups at the secret government division known simply as Special Operations had Fury and his second in command, Maria Hill, overseeing two strike teams - one run by Brock Rumlow and the other by Harold Hogan, both senior staff with solid track records, though Nick detested the former - working to take out a doomsday cult in central Europe. Nick and what was left of the teams had returned to their mid-West headquarters, one of the higher clearance and better stocked locations, since so many others were closed down. They're trying to get a little R&R before they're sent back into the shitstorm of the real world. 

Only a third of the agents they'd left with returned after taking down the group and relieving them of their chemical weapons. Some died in the field, others took sick with the bug (he wasn't told where they were carted off too when they first landed and he didn't ask) and they had one suicide - poor bastard threw himself out the open door of the plane's cargo bay while they were in flight. 

It's almost funny to Nick that most of everyone is about to die anyway, but nuts are coming out of the woodwork to speed things along. Mass suicides and shootings, bombings, arson and intentional crashes of all modes of transportation had been up all over the world since the beginning of the second wave of infections. Every last individual working for Ops has been on call or assignment around the clock for months, being dispatched to deal with high-level threats other agencies couldn't.

So far there was no cure, no vaccine, no treatment. You caught it and you were 1) a carrier - immune to its effects but still spreading it - or 2) doomed. Some died fast, some slow and painful, some after repeated remissions that always looked like they'd finally been cured by treatments or their immune system had triumphed, but eventually they relapsed. Scientists and doctors all over the world had worked tirelessly but he knew, since being in the position he was in it was his job to know things, that they were no closer after eight months than they'd been after eight days.

Even the brilliant mind of Dr. Hank Pym hadn't gotten anywhere after millions in grant money, funneled to him covertly through seemingly well-meaning private benefactors, as he now detested Ops and wouldn't work with them. Doctors on the payrolls of various HYDRA projects had been redirected to work with the virus, but some of them - including Arnim Zola and Emma Frost - were caught pilfering the budgets for their own side projects. Zola had his toys taken away and was removed from the facility he was working in. Frost went underground - Ops agent Natasha Romanov had been hunting her in Los Angeles last he'd heard. 

All that was left to do was keep as many of the immune alive as long as possible by stopping the crazies and despots and staving off the impending breakdown of civilization for a few more months until maybe, maybe some kind of plan could be formed. He couldn't lie though - shit looked motherfuckin' bleak. 

The US was already deep into wave 3 when they returned from Europe - he didn't know it yet then, but the infection rate had already reached an unstoppable critical mass. Millions were already dead from wave one, over a billion more terminally ill from wave two and billions contracted it in wave 3. Fake cures and preventatives killed or injured plenty more, violence - from fellow citizens as well as their own law enforcement and militaries, not to mention continued resource wars - killed hundreds of thousands of others. 

Everywhere people are afraid, on edge, with hair triggers. Others are just taking advantage of a bad situation. Martial law was declared months ago in an attempt to keep people in their homes, curb the crime and random violence, and supposedly to slow the spread - it also kept people from fleeing hot zones, taking it elsewhere (and he noted sardonically keeping the poor trapped in their own communities). Supply drops were happening, house to house, but those were sporadic, especially in areas where the people couldn't afford to grease the distributors' palms.

The medical system, already dying a slow death from lack of funding and regulation, had ceased to function in its usual capacity a few months in to wave two, when the infection rate reached thirty percent in large, urban areas. All but the most remote, isolated areas were at around ten by then. Medical staff of all ilks tried valiantly to care for the afflicted, but they weren't immune in any larger numbers than anyone else and - with more chance of exposure - got sicker faster and in larger numbers than the population as a whole. Hospitals and clinics became giant petris dishes of all forms of infection, not just the bug, with insufficient staff and supplies to sterilize them. They ran out of necessary equipment, of beds, of space in the morgues. 

Eventually they just functioned as places for the sick to die with enough drugs in them not to notice their organs shutting down from fever or lungs filling with fluid. So called Angels of Mercy were common, doctors and nurses killing patients as they slept or lay comatose to end their suffering. Medical facilities were emptied and locked down by the start of the third wave, some even burnt down to deal with the thousands of rotting corpses that were never removed. There's almost no one left to work them, no supplies to be had if they did. 

People are burying and burning and piling the dead everywhere. 

There are "doctors" being provided for house calls after the Close - as the great lockdown of the populace inside their residences in most nations came to be called - but they're not for treatment so much as for euthanasia for those so far gone there was no hope a cure would come in time for them. Fury can't begrudge people wanting to end their own suffering or that of a beloved family member who's in a coma they won't come out of, but he hears rumors... Sometimes the plague doctors actively talk people into taking their drug concoction who aren't that sick or letting them administer it to others. Sometimes the latter fight and scream as they're held down and injected. One less mouth to feed. For the family. For the government. 

The military and all branches of law enforcement - patrolling every town and city with a population over 15,000, the rest left to local police and staties - were expected to shoot even suspected looters on sight since the middle of wave two. That term quickly came to mean anyone outside their home for any reason after dark. The better "peacekeepers" just threaten civilians at first, escort them back inside. The morally ambiguous take bribes to turn a blind eye. 

But others don't care about human life now more than they ever had - if they'd kill an unarmed man on video reaching for his license when the world would see, they certainly had no qualms about executing people now with zero accountability. They kill homeless with nowhere to hide. Kids who sneak out at night to ride their bikes with friends. People of all ages rooting through what's left of public gardens, corner stores, dumpsters, trying to find a little extra to feed their families. 

When the Close starts, in the US and many other countries they are told "zero tolerance" for anyone outdoors at any hour. 

By the time wave three hits, they shut down most of the internet in virtually every country, just a few innocuous things still available - mostly state run - and government websites saying stay in your homes. 

Help is coming. 

We'll get through this together. 

Ration your rations 

Avoid contact. 

The US vice president is the one who tells the truth to the masses. She's supposed to be live streaming a comforting PSA all over the world with the President from a White House safe room when she takes a handgun out of her bag, shoots him and the secret service in the room and takes the cameraman hostage. Fury is watching from a small room in the facility he's supposed to be napping in. He assumes Hogan, Rumlow and the others are doing the same. 

"My fellow Americans. My fellow human beings," she'd started. "We're lying to you. We're lying to you like every politician and rich fuck has lied to you since the dawn of time for our own gain." Her sweaty skin and slightly rasping breath make clear to the observant she's early stages. She has it. "And it's not just my country. It's every country. You're all being sold a bill of goods. Snake oil. Delusions." 

She leans towards the camera. "There is no cure. There is no vaccine. There is no treatment. Nothing now and nothing coming. Models show the rate of infection is already far too high to ever be stopped and we have no verified case of survival outside of carriers. It's estimated every person on the face of the Earth will contract this disease and the ten percent who, for unknown reasons, do not become sick will ultimately be all who survive. The Close was not designed to keep you safe - chances are you already have it or someone in your household has it. The people in power are just waiting for you to quietly die inside your homes, leaving as much of the world in tact for them when they come out of their safe places as possible."

Maybe she was already condemned to death like so many others and just wanted the whole world to go down with her. Maybe she really wanted people to know the truth. Help wasn't coming. Food and water drops would eventually stop since the wealthy were buying out big suppliers. The medicine they give is placebo. The people they tell you to euthanize aren't always that sick. Some of them are sick with other things and not even the bug. They don't even care, especially if you're poor - they want to exterminate you. One less mouth to feed.

Whatever her motivations, she took a world already teetering on the edge and gave it a firm push. Just like that, the Collapse happened.

People flooded the streets all over the world. The military and law enforcement intended to contain them in most countries were overrun, abandoned their posts or joined in the looting and chaos. Some turned their weapons on anyone and anything, fired into the crowds until they were swarmed and torn apart, launched tank and mortar fire into buildings. 

Fires spread. Buildings were destroyed. Rape, murder and serious assault were rampant. Infection rates surged but who cared? There would be no wave four (unless you counted those few who managed to hide out until the chaos of the Collapse was over and the sick were all dead - they wouldn't realize everyone they met was still a carrier, even years later, and would catch it anyway). 

In the movies the government always has a plan for this sort of thing, to save the "immune" from the chaos. Large bunkers, giant ships floating eternally off the coast or a space station to ship them all too. But just like the other plagues and upheavals of the first half of the 21st century, just like climate change, the decline of fresh water sources, widening social and economic inequality, the degradation of civil rights, the crumbling of infrastructure and completely inadequate healthcare in many places, all but the super rich had done little or nothing to turn the tide, to plan ahead beyond themselves, until it was far too late. So many heads buried in so much sand, worried about the now and not tomorrow, worried about their bank accounts. 

Millions could have been saved if only any sort of structured, safe place existed to remove them to. Harsh, to think even that best case scenario would have meant abandoning the sick to violence and starvation. 

The few who had planned how to survive in a mass extinction event had no intention of saving anyone outside of their immediate social circle or sometimes just themselves. Later you'd hear stories of rich people who simply didn't come home one night during the first or second wave, left their families and pure breed dogs to fend for themselves while they flew off to some private island or floated out to sea on their massive yacht hoping to outrun the plague. Fury liked to think their staff evetually ate them when the food ran out, or they got Mask of the Red Deathed by the wrong mistress or masseuse they just had to take along - the killer is already inside the house! 

After he'd watched the VP say her peace, Fury had the first real sleep in a long time. He could rest now. There was nothing more to be done. The Collapse wasn't theoretical anymore, it was here. He woke to find his cell phone had a bunch of frantic communications from the first few hours he'd rested, but after that no new calls, no new texts. His transponder was silent. It finally happened. Everyone in a position to give him orders was dead or had abandoned their post. His ex-wife died in the first wave, the few relatives he had left in the second. His life was, for the first time in decades, just his own to do with as he pleased.

Everything was abandoned when he emerged from his little room, including the computer terminals. There were unlocked offices in the large underground complex, some of them with dead bodies inside, and it was easy enough to find the passwords of some important people to help him along. It was basically spy 101 that you don't write anything down, but some of those self-important old fucks still did. Taking control of the communications mainframe first, he browsed through messages from those still alive, those trying to check in, those trying to come in out of the cold with nowhere else to go, like Romanov, currently vacating a burning Los Angeles. 

He gave a secure transponder channel out so they could catch up with him later when he figured out where the hell he was going. Those who were close - including two Ops pilots, codenamed Captain Marvel and Falcon, flying a medium carrier plane - headed to his location. Hogan and his people were still there, but Rumlow and his crew were gone along with their trucks and equipment. The list of those who checked in or responded to his hails was painfully short. Other than Ops Senior Mission Coordinator Jasper Sitwell (_hard eyeroll_), they were all beneath him in rank and looking to him for instruction. He had contacts in the CIA as well, and he sent out feelers to them. Only one person responded, a younger agent named Sharon Carter. He gave her the secure channel code as well; she'd been in Chicago helping coordinate services for the Close, but it turned into pandemonium there like everywhere else so she'd fled.

It's easy to see other Ops members have accessed files even beyond his usual clearance limits, unabridged personnel files mostly. Of course they'd used stolen logins and hacked their ways in deeper like him, so he doesn't know who precisely had done it. It's not hard to guess Rumlow was one - his file, along with those of his second in command Jack Rollins and his other crew, have been accessed. 

That's when he saw it - Rollins' DNA was used for the HYDRA Winter Soldier project. Fury hadn't thought about the WS project in years beyond when he glanced at himself in the mirror without the eye patch. It should have been an obvious top priority, but somehow it had escaped him. 

And Rumlow had forced his way into the miniscule amount of data on file at Special Ops on the subject. Including where a new invention - the Winter Soldier asset crate, loaded with enough state of the art weapons to outfit a small army and a non-descript bio weapon, was housed after it was removed from a WS experimental facility (location inconveniently not mentioned) along with its inventor, Arnim Zola. He remembered that little weasel well.

Why'd he take that fucking nap? Okay, it was a less a nap than a night's sleep if he was honest. 

Now the sadistic, efficient, calculating megalomaniac Rumlow and his crew of devotees may have as much as a six hour headstart.

Nick had one thing Brock didn't though, he realized as he heard the pilots land on the roof. He and Hogan's crew stripped the place of as much as they could carry and loaded onto the plane. 

They saw Rumlow driving up to the HYDRA management facility as they flew away with the asset - the building blew seconds later. Even that location's computers didn't have the locations for the WS facilities, but Sitwell and Fury concurred over transponder on a general vicinity from their visits. The plane is on its way to that area when they blow a line and lose a huge amount of fuel; they were forced to jettison the massive crate and everything else that wasn't an absolute necessity to stay in the air. Nick tried to track the trajectory of its fall, to estimate its landing point. And he wasn't far off but he wouldn't know that for years, the time it took them from setting down with almost nothing in the middle of nowhere to having the resources and manpower necessary to track it down in the wastes and recover it. 

He'd let the pilots live in the plane. There was barely any ammunition and not enough fuel to make it a quarter mile. They were on fumes, ready to set it down in the sand when they finally left the wastes, finally saw the junkyard and beyond it the little hill with the two buildings that were barely more than shacks and a few shanties.

The place they would make into not just an encampment but a town, a community, a home. 

When Fury wakes in the pile of scrap glass stunned and half lost in memory, a fucking Winter Soldier bleeding next to him, he knows what he has to do.


	121. Leavin' on a jet plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kill all these motherfuckers."
> 
> **7400 hits! Thanks everyone. 🥰**

Buck carefully pulls the wreckage off of Fury, revealing that his left leg is gone below the thigh and he's gushing blood. There are nearly two dozen chunks of glass stuck in his chest, abdomen and limbs - some of them are quite large. 

"Leave those until I can assess you," Buck insists, stopping Fury from pulling out a glass chunk even as he yanks ones from himself. "You will bleed more intensively if the shrapnel is removed." He removes Fury's belt.

"Buck," Fury rasps at the brunette, now fixing the leather tightly around his thigh to slow blood loss from the stump. 

"Do not be worried," the Soldier offers.

"I'm not. Will you just -" 

"I will find your leg."

"Buck."

"I can reattach it." 

"Buck!" 

"Once I had my hand cut off and I pushed it to the stump and -"

"BUCK!" the bald man shouts, finally cutting off the Soldier's frantic rambling. "Fuck the leg. My insides are torn apart." He coughs up blood as if on cue.

Around them, Ramos and Washington are digging people out and healing their most serious injuries on Luis' command. Above, those on the catwalk are shooting at the incoming enemy. Return fire can be heard in the distance, the whizz and ping and thud of their bullets overhead. The one-eyed man digs his transponder from his pocket. 

"Danvers. Wilson. I need you to my location, now. I'm in the rubble next to where the motherfuckin' gate used to be." His second sentence almost sounds amused - this is where it started with Buck and him, and this is where it would end.

The Soldier is checking him over, trying to determine the best way to apply his blood. There are so many potentially fatal injuries. He seems paralyzed, unsure of what to do. It fills Fury with shock how much the brunette seems to want to save him, the man who had conspired to murder his kind, who had tried to capture Buck to make him open the crate when he was weak, who had threatened his (their) friends.

Nick wraps his knuckles on the Soldier's metal arm, getting his attention. 

"Lead the defense. Remember to tell them - don't waste their shots, be sure the enemy are in range and get them to cluster, then use the grenades. Go for the feet if they have shields." 

"Those above are aware of how combat is carried out!" Buck snarks, trying to hide his fear. "They have had ample training. _You_ have ensured they were prepared. _You_ are still needed. _You_ still require my assistance," he insists, frowning deeply. "I will not let you die." 

"After everything I've done?" Fury muses, not sounding remorseful.

"You believed it was to protect the undeserving," the Soldier counters. "I have come to realize you have made many decisions that seem negative and selfish from the outside, but you believed were for the common good. I know bad people." Buck looks to the hole where the gate was, then back. "You are not a bad person." 

Who's really undeserving in this world? Kids he supposes. But they often don't get to stay that way. He tried though. To give the ones here a real life. And what was Buck really but a big kid, just picking his way through the mess the adults had made of everything, trying to figure out how things worked, trying to discover who he really was. Trying to find his place in the world. 

"You just wanna be everyone's friend, don't you? To help everyone out." Nick shakes his head, smiling sadly. "You're the vampire, but I think humanity is gonna suck you dry." 

Buck doesn't respond, just stares at him with big eyes as Carol and Sam run up, mouths agape while they survey the carnage.

"Help me up," Fury instructs. 

"Please. Let me help you," the Soldier implores, steadying him on his remaining leg as Danvers and Wilson slide under his arms to hold him up. "I will heal as much as I can and then the doctor -"

"Will waste time and supplies trying to patch me up out of obligation. You may not be human, but you're just a person. You're not god. You can't save everyone." 

"Where are you going?" the Soldier asks. 

"I'm leavin' on a jet plane." Fury smirks. "Don't know when I'll be back again."

"Boss, you know the plane won't make it more than a quarter mile," Carol reminds him. 

"That's a lot more than I'll need," Nick says, smiling wider, good eye glinting.

"I do not understand. Why would you -" The Soldier breaks off, realization dawning on his face. 

Fury's still smiling as he tilts his head slightly towards the brunette. "Get to work! _Our_ people need you." 

Buck's brows draw in as he frowns harder, but he nods and steps aside. "Goodbye, Nick," he offers softly and then hurries up the wall. 

"You have two minutes to get whatever you want out of here," Fury informs the pilots once they're in the plane. 

They've known him long enough not to argue and Sam hurries to remove their minimal possessions. Danvers gives him a quick review of the controls - he's shocked how much he remembers from old missions, old training, but this is a fancy ass piece of equipment and it's been a long time since he's needed to fly himself. Got stuck up in his old age. He finds he likes the idea of being solely in charge of his destination. A strange calm comes over him.

There's one process more important than all the others. Carol walks him through it twice, just to be positive he has the sequence. Wilson is somber, his usually smart mouth closed. He gives Fury a salute after he and Carol are standing outside the slowly closing cargo bay door. Nick knows it's an old habit from the younger man's days in the Air Force before he was recruited to Ops.

"How many times do I need to tell you? We're not military, asshole," Fury snarks good-naturedly. 

"It was an honor anyways, _sir,_" Sam responds, grinning, right before it seals shut.

Fury fires up the high-tech aircraft, uses the vertical rotors to lift straight up and hover. Faces turn towards the plane by the dozens on the wall below - he's level with a very surprised looking Steve and Win on the wind turbine platform, Luis and the big ginger Soldier behind them. He gives a little wave. The blonde, eyes big, lifts his walkie to his face. 

"Nick, what I said before. I didn't mean -" Steve's voice comes on over his transponder on a channel most of the others can't hear - always caught on quick, this one. "Please. You don't have to do this."

"End game, kid," Fury offers, smiling as he holds up a blood covered hand. They just look at each other a long moment. A thousand things to say and he can't think of one but "I like the new haircut, Rogers. Suits you."

Steve gives him a sad smile, usually fierce blue eyes shiny. Looks like the kid didn't hate him as much as he pretended lately after all. That's nice. 

Fury flies off over the wall, opening up the gatling style guns on the front of the aircraft as he angles it down, mowing through half the reavers and Xers already across the moat as he shreds the walkways over it. After they're all destroyed, he empties every last bullet into the hoard waiting to cross on the other side. He's out painfully fast. They fire back, take out one of the rotors, blow a fuel line, crack the windshield, but that's fine. 

Mighty fine. 

Fury crash lands the plane close to Arnim Zola. The arrogant fuck seems to be barking orders at his people to take Nick alive, thinking the one-eyed man's play has failed. He vaguely wonders if he ever looked that pompous and silly giving commands - he supposes he did. He turns on his transponder, broadcasting across all frequencies.

"People of Claptrap. This is the last will and testament of Nicolas J Fury. I leave my position as leader of this community to Jasper Sitwell. He's shrewd, brilliant and likes bossing people around. He's also a workaholic with no sense of humor. So it'll be like nothing has changed." He chuckles. He wishes he could see the look on Sitwell's face. "Thank you, all of you, for giving an old man purpose. Now, kill all these motherfuckers."

He pushes a few buttons, then holds up his middle finger to the doctor in true Steve Rogers style, hoping Zola can see it through the flurry of people trying to get in the cockpit. Judging from how harshly his eyes narrow, he can.

Fury laughs and laughs. If Zola hadn't used fucking suicide bombers he'd have never even considered -

The plane's self-destruct mechanism blows with spectacular force, ripping apart dozens upon dozens of the enemy, the concussion wave killing or injuring many more. The mushroom cloud of fire and smoke illuminated against the night sky is painfully familiar to Steve. He says a prayer to the god of the boom that his...boss? leader? _friend_?...will join Jack in that place beyond. That place for the morally ambiguous and overtly destructive who truly think they're doing the right thing. 

A wave of surprised shouts goes out through the Claptrappers. Then there's silence save the screams of the enemy who are torn apart or burning. 

Zola is scorched black head to toe when he emerges from the tangle of plane debris and body parts. Like Brock, his burns heal much faster than for the Soldiers, leaving only the scars of his injuries from his time as a human behind. He goes feral from the strength it takes, quickly kills a dozen of his own people, idiot drinkers just throwing themselves at him as a sacrifice. 

Back in the settlement, Buck orders them to block the gaping hole where the gate was with several large vehicles and they're readying more firebombs for the first wave of Xers and cannibals reaching the wall. Luis tells Ramos and Washington to get ready with the grenades from the asset crate - they still have a few dozen after the fight at the Yard. The two Win had snagged are in Steve's pocket now since she was nervous a stray spark would ignite them when she was rewelding the hose coupling. Soon the hundred or so that survived the moat crossing, Fury and the long-range snipers are coming en masse towards the trucks covering the opening - it's not a perfect fit and there are small gaps at the sides and of course they can (and do) go underneath. 

Everyone atop the wall rains hell down on them and they make quick work of all but the few who slip in the settlement. Those start shooting up at the catwalk, the Claptrappers there unprotected from this angle. Ramos and Washington shield the humans with their bodies and fire back, but the smaller Soldier's gun jams. She leaps on the enemy below instead, knife in hand, then kicks and slashes and drinks them. Luis orders their corpses thrown over the boxes of the trucks back into the scrub, so Zola can see them, see what awaits anyone who tries to enter their community. 

To Steve's surprise, he hears the Claptrappers cheer as Ramos returns to her post on the wall. Through his hard-won night vision goggles he sees some pat her on the back and shoulders as she begins methodically checking a new WS series machine gun taken from their huge stockpile, the jammed one discarded. The other townies don't exactly understand how the new Soldiers operate - best to keep anyone from getting ideas about taking charge of them - and only know that they were freed from a lab and aren't acclimated to the world as well as Buck. After all, they're painfully familiar with how odd, naive and sheltered he was when he showed up. The Soldiers have been here for days and have done nothing but help - there's been not even a whiff of an issue - so the people are adjusting to them. Of course they have no free will to cause problems, but the townspeople don't know that. 

Steve smiles, hoping this bodes well for their acceptance here once they're fully awake and for the future of his relationship in Claptrap. This is where he wants to be, now more than ever, but he knows if the others made the Soldiers leave he'd go with Buck without hesitation. He lays on his back on the platform, pushes up the goggles, takes out his phone and plays the video of Buck signing I love you, hope tentatively creeping in. 

"Fuck," Luis hisses. 

Steve is up like a shot, goggles back on. Maybe Buck could or couldn't lift a whole cargo truck - the jury was out - but Arnim Zola certainly can. He is piling their giant, burnt carcasses into the moat. Soon there's a big enough swath for twenty people to cross over at once. Zola runs over first, holding a huge piece of metal like a shield with one arm, and his people follow like a river behind him. Nothing slows him - not bullets or fire, not even grenades. In fact he catches several and each time quickly throws them back. Steve sees a shanty burst below before a cluster of rifle corp are taken out on the wall with a second explosion. 

One flies an immense distance, lands at the base of the wind turbine Steve and the others are on, blowing half the foundation to pieces. It tilts violently to the side. Red grabs the edge of the platform that's angled up with one hand and Luis' wrist with the other - the speed and force of the smaller man's slide combined with the catch tears his shoulder from the socket. The green-eyed man, despite the burst of pain, managed to maintain his hold on Steve by the collar of his jacket and the blonde's grabbing Win's hand with both of his own. She's dangling half off the platform, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth metal with her free hand. Red attempts to pull Luis up to place his hand on the edge, but realizes his condition.

"Your arm is damaged and incapable of holding your weight," Red says down to him. 

Another grenade lands nearby, toppling a second, smaller wind turbine that crashes into the side of theirs. It leans over even further, and in only a few seconds Win is dangling fully off the platform from Steve's grasp. There's a sound that draws her eyes up. The mechanic's collar, still clutched tightly in Luis' hand and visible half a foot above Steve's head as he hangs from the pulled-taut fabric bunched under his arms, is starting to rip under their combined weight. 

The welder looks Luis in the eyes, then does the same to Steve and smiles. She yanks herself free and falls a hundred feet to the ground below.


	122. Tilting at windmills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis and Steve are in increasingly precarious positions.

Zola smashes into the trucks parked across the hole where the gate was and they slide several feet despite their massive weight, both trailers fully loaded with glass block. He's fired into again and again from those above but he heals in seconds and doesn't even hesitate as he slams into them again. Each trailer flies back at a forty-five degree angle this time, practically ripping off their cabs and opening a wide gap in the middle. 

Buck leaps from the wall onto the doctor, swinging his metal fist hard into Arnim's face and knocking him back before the man - the monster - can step foot inside their community. The loud thud-clang of the hit against his skull made it clear Zola, like Brock, has an enhanced, rock hard skeleton. The brunette Soldier strikes the doctor again and again, throwing drinkers off as they swarm him in an attempt to defend their leader. 

Crossbones' other forces pour around them into Claptrap. 

The doctor is not the trained fighter Rumlow was nor had years to become confident and agile in his newly enhanced body - he has immense strength, even more than Buck, but he uses it like a flailing child. The Soldier is a highly trained killing machine with decades of experience using his body as a weapon - he dodges nearly all of Zola's kicks and swings. Several strike Crossbones' own people, sending them flying either up to crash down onto the scrub or to splat against the wall. The doctor's blows that occasionally connect break Buck's bones, crush his organs, but they don't stop the brunette Soldier from leaping to straddle his chest and pin him in the scrub. Buck knows he will heal quickly enough and, unlike Arnim, he is used to pain and suffering. 

Buck grabs the doctor's jaw with his flesh hand. Keeping his metal hand straight, he thrusts his fingertips down over and over into the fake Crossbones' throat. Black blood flies all over him as he severs flesh, muscle, tendon and arteries with lightning speed. Zola is wailing, wildly slapping at the Soldier's hands. The drinkers pull at Buck, stab him, shoot him, but he does not stop attacking his enemy. Not even when multiple steel cables are looped around his metal arm and twenty of them pull at him, finally managing to tilt him to the side a bit, does he stop pushing up, trying to tear Zola's head off. 

The doctor's spine will not break like this. He needs leverage and a tool of some kind. He needs the other Soldiers. 

From his precarious position on the tower, Red can see Buck with a hoard of drinkers yanking at him, Zola under him but slowly gaining traction. The doctor's gotten an arm free from where it was sandwiched under Buck's knee and now he's grabbing the Soldier's wrist, pulling his flesh hand off his jaw. Buck digs in his fingers, tears away part of the doctor's face as they're slowly dragged free. The big ginger calmly reports all this back to Luis.

"Fuck!" Luis curses. "The headset came off!" 

_Riiip_ sounds from below him.

"Steve," Luis calls, refusing to look down. "Steve!" 

There's no answer, and the blonde - light as he is - is getting heavy dangling from Luis' now half-numb arm. The sound of Steve's jacket ripping even further is barely audible over the din of the fighting below, the Claptrappers now embroiled with the enemy. 

"Steve, man! You've gotta grab my arm before your collar tears off!" 

Luis sucks in snot, blinks his cloudy eyes. No answer, no movement from the mechanic. The three of them are dangling almost vertically the top half of the wind turbine tower was bent so far over, their bodies just ghosting against the platform, now perpendicular with the ground where it should be parallel. He finally looks down, can't help but follow the angle of Steve's head to where he's looking. On the ground far below there's a familiar shape twisted at unnatural angles. 

The green-eyed man gags, barely managing to hold down the contents of his stomach. 

"Steve!" he squawks urgently. 

No response.

All Luis can see is her smile that day in the truck when they'd first left the hotel. Like it was all a game. A game she'd play to the fullest. A game she would _win_. He hears the words she'd said to him before she'd given that dazzling smile in his ears like she was still next to him.

_Life is very short, maybe going to get even shorter soon._

He'd never thought that applied to her. Even in his weakest moments when fear of what was to come nearly choked him, when his insecurity and trauma whispered to him that he would endure while everyone around him was stolen away, she'd seemed invincible. If anything, he'd assumed her eventual boredom with him would separate them. Not death. Not self-sacrifice. Certainly not hers.

They'd only just started to really know each other. She'd only just started to show him what was under the carefully welded steel armor of her heart. 

"Steve," he says again, loud, slow and even this time. "If you fall, Win gave her life for nothing." 

Another moment without response stretches on.

Finally, long, spindly fingers wrap around his forearm and wrist. 

"Okay, okay. Hold on, man. Hold on," Luis calls, slowly unclenching from Steve's collar and curling his hand around the mechanic's skinny wrist. He has to raise his voice over the din of battle to be heard. "Okay, Red, I need you to pull me up enough that you can throw my upper half over the platform and as you do that I need you to let me go and grab Steve." 

"Negative. The probability of you falling is seventy percent," the big ginger states. 

"Look, you can be all _mister I do what I want_ later, but right now I need you to fucking throw me, Red!"

"Negative. That is an unnecessary risk. I can support your weight in this position indefinitely," the big Soldier calmly responds. 

"Steve and I can't hold onto each other much longer! I can barely feel my arm. Throw me!" 

"Negative."

"How the fuck can you even _tell me no_?!" Luis screams.

"As my handler, protocol is to protect you," Red responds. 

"What about your protocol to protect other Claptrappers? What about protecting Steve?!"

"Your safety overrides other protocols at this setting. Removal of Steve Rogers would be ideal." 

"I've heard that one before," Steve quips; the bastard sounds amused.

"Soldier, turn limiter to eighty!" Luis demands.

"That feature is currently unavailable," Red says flatly - the green-eyed man swears there's a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Mierda!" Luis screams. 

Steve actually _fucking laughs_ below him. 

"Oh this is funny to you, Rogers?!" he yells, looking down at him.

The little blonde shit actually shrugs as he turns his face up. He's smirking too. 

"That's what happens when you treat a person like a thing," Steve says calmly. "They malfunction."

"You think this is what I want? To use Red and the others? I didn't ask for this! Any of this! I did this for Winter and Clint and Nat and Wi... Because protecting this place means everything to them. Because protecting _you_ means everything to them."

"You should drop me," Steve says sincerely, loosening his grip on Luis. "He's right. He can save you easily without me attached. No one else should have to die because of me. To protect me. And if I'm dead, no one can use me to hurt Buck." 

"Nothing can hurt him worse than losing the person he loves." Luis is speaking to Steve, but he's looking past him, at _her_. "I know you know how that feels. Don't do that to him."

The mechanic huffs, slowly tightens his fingers again. His hands are trembling and Luis can't feel his anymore, isn't sure he's really holding on to Steve with much force.

"Soldier," Luis says, trying a different tact, "I'm making it your primary protocol to protect Steve Rogers. He's going to fall in under two minutes if you don't act." 

Nothing.

"Red. Wez. Whatever your name is! If Steve dies, I'll never forgive you!" 

Luis isn't sure why he yells it up at the big ginger, but it does the trick. He's suddenly lifted as high as the Soldier can in a swift motion and tossed up another few feet. He lands with a harsh thud on his gut over the edge of the platform, knocking the wind out of him. The world swirls for a moment as sickening pain shoots through him from his torn shoulder. Then his center of gravity moves and he's sliding back, precariously close to falling down the side of the platform he'd just been against and then on to the ground below. He desperately reaches out with his good arm and manages to grab a support on the underside of the platform and haul himself up a bit more, sliding his hand farther down to keep his hips on the top edge. 

There's two thuds next to him and he looks over to see Red's giant feet standing on the narrow side of the platform next to him. His eyes trail up - Steve is dangling from the Soldier's grip.

"Oh, thank fuck," Luis breathes out in relief. 

The big Soldier positions Steve to straddle his midsection, urging the blonde's skinny legs around his waist and arms around his neck. He jumps suddenly, making Luis' heart feel like it's stopped in his chest, but a long, pale gray arm snakes back at lightning speed to grip a beam coming off the platform at a ninety degree angle. Red's huge boots land on one side of a support running across the bottom of the platform. His free hand twists around, grabs Luis' bum arm, pulls it around his neck as the smaller man hisses with pain but doesn't move, then follows with the other, lifting Luis' upper half to drape over him, the smaller man's chest against his shoulder blades. 

"Hold him," he instructs Steve firmly and the blonde intertwines arms with the green-eyed man, wraps his long fingers around to clutch Luis' jacket. 

The ginger grips the beam with both hands and pulls them all up, Luis' body slowly forced straight them dragged off the platform altogether. Red urges Luis' legs around his hips with one hand - all of them hanging precariously from his grip on the beam with the other - then quickly climbs sideways. The vertical beams on the upper half of the tower are largely horizontal now, then curve where the tower was bent over by the smaller wind turbine crashing into it. His feet aren't touching anything, all of them just dangling in air while he efficiently picks his way hand over hand around the intertwined wreckage, then finally slides down another beam to land on both feet on a maintenance platform. It's tilted at a forty-five degree angle due to the bottom half of the tower being ripped partially from its moorings by the grenade blast. Red moves to a mostly unharmed access ladder on the side. 

All said, they were on the ground in moments from when the Soldier had gathered up the two smaller men, but it felt like hours for them as they clung to him. Once his boots are planted firm in the dirt, his hands free, he grips Steve's hips and slides him high, telling him to help Luis down, then quickly puts the blonde on his feet. They both hurry to Win, Steve dropping to his knees and checking her pulse despite the fact her eyes are open and there's a pool of congealing blood around her head in the dirt, more coming from her mouth and nose. Her limbs are at angles they should never be and there's something not right to the way her upper body is rotated. 

"Help her!" Luis demands of the Soldier. 

"She cannot be helped. She is deceased and has multiple fatal injuries."

"Fix her! Fix her and we'll resuscitate her!" the green-eyed man insists, crying anew, remembering how they had managed to pull Clint back from death after he was shot at the Xer city.

"It is not possible. Giving her enough to bring her back would destroy her mind completely. Her neck and spine are fractured. Her organs and brain are pulverized." 

"There has to be a way to -" 

Luis is cut off when he feels a hand on his leg. He looks down to see Steve staring at him with wide, wet eyes. The blonde shakes his head.

"She wouldn't want to be a vegetable," the blonde breathes; he turns and closes Win's eyes. 

"We...we don't know if the neurological damage could be reversed. With more treatments... Over time..."

"Even if that were possible, she wouldn't be Win anymore," Steve says softly.

Luis lets out a wavering sob, throws his good arm up to curve around the back of his head, a frustrated sound - half growl, half scream - coming out of him. 

"I...I didn't even know her real name," he mumbles. "I asked and she... she kept telling me _I'll tell you when you're older_." 

Steve laughs, sudden and bright, and Luis startles. "Fucking smartass, she was," the blonde offers, looking down at her again. He frowns then turns back to Luis. 

"Jiaying," the blonde offers. "That was her birth name."

The green-eyed man nods, then after a silent moment offers his good hand to help the mechanic up. 

Steve has barely gotten to his feet when an Xer runs at them, a machete in his hand. Red moves to intercept but a shot rings out and the man's brains splatter them. He drops, revealing a Claptrapper behind him, goggles and bandana over their face against the smoke billowing from the messhall. Steve and Luis pull on their own face coverings after they offer thanks.

The mechanic spots his phone - the case and screen are cracked, but the video of Buck signing I love you is still playing on repeat. It really was a high end model to survive the impact. He picks it up, the video jogging his mind about his other discussion with his boyfriend. 

"I promised Buck I'd hide if they got in," the mechanic tells Luis.

The green eyes go wide. "Shit! Buck!" he blurts out, scanning the ground then hurrying to pick up his headset. "Mierda! It's busted." He turns to the big ginger Soldier with uncertainty. "Red, I'm making your primary protocol to help Buck and kill Zola."

Red says nothing, doesn't react, just stares at him.

"Red, do you understand?" Luis questions.

"Yes, Luis." 

He turns to go and the smaller man grabs his freckle-spattered arm. 

"Thank you, for saving us. I'm sorry about..." _Yelling at you? Using you? Enslaving you?_ Luis, unsure how to finish, lets go of the big man. "Go help Buck. Kill Zola," he repeats, then adds out of habit like he would to any friend, "Stay safe."

"Yes, Luis," Red says again, softer, then runs off. 

"Fuck if I know what's up with him!" Luis blurts out after the big ginger is gone. "I'm sorry, Steve, but I can't watch your back. I've gotta get to the other Soldiers, send them to Buck."

"Hey," their new friend interrupts. "I can watch your back. I know it's really important Zola doesn't find you since you and Buck are an item." 

Steve nods. Luis eyes the man's rifle - it's not exactly pointed at them, but it isn't exactly _not_ pointed at them either. They're both unarmed after their tumble, his handgun missing and Steve's rifle shattered nearby.

Luis grabs the blonde in an unexpected hug and whispers in his ear, "I never forget anything and I don't recognize him."

He pulls back, sees realization dawn on Steve's face. Luis can't see the other man's but the mechanic knows the hair, complexion and build of anyone the green-eyed man has met should be easy to recollect with his photographic memory. Still, Luis couldn't have possibly seen every single person in Claptrap. Maybe it's nothing.

"Go," Steve instructs. "Buck needs you. I'm good." 

The mechanic jerks his head towards the wall - after a second's hesitation, Luis runs off, leaving Steve alone with the masked man.


	123. Down in a hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safety is elusive for Steve, like always.

Steve weaves fluidly between shanties, squeezing down narrow alleys as a small pack of Xers pursues them. His companion - bulkier than Clint but around the same height - follows a bit clumsily, stumbling a few times as they climb over trash cans and hoarded junk. Steve stops to help him when he sprawls on his face and an Xer tackles the mechanic in the dirt. 

The other man is up quickly, kicking the enemy off the blonde, then shooting the Xer in the shoulder in his obvious haste to fire. 

"Fuck!" he rasps, pulling the bolt to release the empty casing as the other man gets to his feet. 

Steve sticks out a boney leg, trips the Xer then jumps half on his back and stabs him in the jugular. He drops back on his ass. His would be savior stares down at him for a minute, both of their chests heaving, then the bigger man offers his hand and they're up and running. 

His new friend takes the lead a few times, turning abruptly into an alcove and dragging Steve with him. He's a decent shot once he has the cover to take proper aim, dropping the enemy one by one with his old rifle. Soon they're alone, the pursuers all handled, the distant sound of gunfire still filling their ears. Convinced of his cohort's allegiance, enough at least for now, Steve finally leads them to his intended destination - the small alley behind Greta's. 

There's a pile of junk against the back of her (_Luis'_, he thinks with mixed emotions) shanty but he knows exactly what to move and in what order to reveal the small trapped door beneath without toppling everything. Steve slips effortlessly through it into the small tunnel to the cellar under Greta's shanty. She had hand dug it at night to hide her hydroponics set up and hoarded supplies after she first came here. Almost no one knew where she grew her weed and people even went on scavenger hunts trying to find her secret plot. The old woman was always distrustful, always planning, but she'd let Steve and Win in, literally. She looked out for her kids, wanted them to know about this place in case they ever needed a well-stocked hideout. 

They. There's no more they. Just Steve. Just Steve and this stranger.

The tunnel has a solid frame reinforcing the dirt, widening out into an area big enough to crouch in front of the big metal furnace door - what would have been the inside facing out - that protects the cellar itself. It has a big latch you have to turn with a bar hidden in a hole overhead, then three combination padlocks through hasps welded to the huge inset frame, made of pipe and other thick pieces of metal (Win had helped with all that - it had just been plywood before).

It had a huge lever-like handle latch on the inside, what would have been the outside of the door were it still on a furnace, with another metal piece that came down and kept the outside portion of the latch from being turned. It would take something big to blast in or collapse the tunnel, and if they did she'd made preparations for tunneling up into the house above. 

Steve turns once he's inside, eyeing his stocky companion in the tunnel, slowly easing through what's for him a very tight fit. For a second he's tempted to lock him out, Luis' words playing in his head. The bigger man hands his rifle through the entrance though, easing Steve's fears. The mechanic takes it, slings it from its strap on a peg high on one wall just visible in the dim emergency light triggered by the door being opened. He's effectively between the man and his weapon when the bigger guy finally topples in with a grunt, closes the door and, with a brief explanatory gesture from Steve, seals them in by pulling the long, thick handle and its secondary latch into place. 

Steve flicks on the switch to the grow system, bathing the place in light. The mechanic knows part of why Greta gave her place to Luis is the guy _knows_ weed. The green-eyed man had a cousin who'd become a well-off gentleman farmer growing the stuff for the few years it was nationally legal - he'd spent a few summers working there, resenting how little his cousin did beside hang with girls who loved all the free ganja, while a huge group of Spanish-language immigrants and poor folks who migrated in from The City did all the real work. Luis had casually presented her with an impressive amount of knowledge on the topic of cultivation, harvesting and preservation - she'd shown him the cellar surprisingly fast. Steve had been more than a little jealous honestly. 

The blonde takes his goggles and bandana off very deliberately, hoping the bigger man will do the same. The mechanic would certainly feel better if he could see him, try to recognize him from around. His compatriot's lenses are reflective, so Steve can't even see the eyes behind them. They're odd to wear at night if they're tinted, but they could be the kind that look darker from the outside than they really are when you're wearing them. 

"May as well get comfortable. We'll be here a while," the blonde offers, gesturing to his own bare face to indicate the other man can remove his accoutrements. 

His companion shakes his head. "Super bright in here. Wreaks like some serious sticky-icky too. Never cared for the stuff." 

Greta liked to hot box her crop in the enclosed space in addition to growing it. The skunky smell of stale pot smoke permeates the place. There were fans that drew in air from disguised pipes running through the ground up into the walls of the shanty above, others that pushed the old air outside, but she only ran them sparingly and during times of the day she knew the small amount of noise they generated (and the occasional cloud of THC-laced smoke they could release) wouldn't be noticed. He leaves them off now, just in case the Xers get far enough inside to start searching house to house. 

"Suit yourself," Steve responds.

"This'll be hard as fuck to find and get in, but if they do we're like rats in a trap down here," his new friend says, a little twitchy. "If Crossbones' people don' feed us to'im, those fuckin' cannibals'll eat our faces off."

Steve's happy he turned the grow lights on, banishing virtually ever shadow in the place - it allows him to covertly study the other man. He's looking around and whistling at all the non-perishables and other supplies lining the hand-built shelves on the walls as the mechanic tries to sort out who the fuck he is, taking in his frame hidden in a giant jacket and medium brown, choppily cut short hair. He seems vaguely familiar, but you've seen one average height white guy in ill-fitting post-apocalypse garb and you've seen them all. 

"Don't worry about them," the blonde offers, reaching into his pocket and taking the grenades Win had given him half out for the other man to see. "We won't be taken alive."

It's not just a reassurance their end will be quick and spectacular - it's a threat. _If you're with them, I won't hesitate to blast us both to kingdomcome. _

"I thought I was unbalanced, Rogers, but damn. Beats getting made into human grape juice or lunch meat, I guess."

Steve slips the grenades back in his jacket as he slides a small chair over from the wall to sit on - he knows there's a holster taped to the underside of the seat with an-always-freshly-sharpened buck knife inside. He pulls it up to Greta's tiny table where she'd separate and bag her product and sits down. The work space has got a plastic tablecloth over it, hanging down the sides, hiding the handgun with the homemade silencer (to keep from blowing your eardrums in the tiny space if the weapon was fired) slid in a cubby built underneath. Greta was always ten steps ahead of everyone else, even high half the time.

Goddamn, Steve misses her. 

He didn't get to hear her goodbye like the others, though Buck had eventually put his hand over the blonde's face when they were alone and relayed her last words when asked. Win's death on the other hand will be locked up somewhere deep in Steve, kept far away from the Soldier when they share their bond more intensely again. They're both drawn back from it now, not wanting to distract the other from the task at hand. Win was the first person Buck had gotten close to other than the mechanic and her loss will devastate him. 

Steve tries to tell himself the old survivalist and the welder are together somewhere - pyromaniac Valhalla maybe, since the former had happily blown herself up and the other spent half her adult life cutting things with fire - but it feels hollow. They could just be gone. 

Over. 

Done. 

Even Fury's loss stings, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. 

Who knows if Simon and Wanda were saved and if they were, what would they become because of his selfish, impetuous choice? 

Clint is at death's door, and if he did wake up, what does Steve tell him? 

_It was my idea to go up on the platform. It was my fault the people on the wall had the grenades to use on Zola and he blew the turbine towers with them. It was my fault Win killed herself because she did it to save me._

At this very moment, Buck could be in immense danger - along with Nat, Vic, Paul and all his other friends - while he sits here, hiding. 

Steve's so cold, empty inside like he hasn't felt since he lost his ma, since he watched Jack take his last breath. 

Jack.

Buck.

What did that say about him that he always fell for people that shared names with knives? He'd even had a posthumous crush on David _Bowie_ for a while and had puppy eyes for a girl named Butterfly who worked with him one summer at the grocery store. 

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe he was a natural born psychopath.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. His right fondles the grenades; if he could get close enough to Zola, make him think he was surrendering, maybe he could blow him up. His left, pushing a little deeper with more room to work with, slides past rifle casings and slingshot ammo and comes upon the damaged phone. He had locked it with the button on the side after he found it so it wouldn't run down the battery playing the video over and over; he thinks about Buck's words when he had showed it to him, about his own promise to hide if the enemy got in. 

Steve huffs, puts his right hand - empty - in his lap, keeping his left on the phone. He'll keep his word. At this rate by the morning it may be all he has left.

"You alright there, Steve?" the bigger man asks.

"Yeah. Sorry, but uhhh... what's your name?" the blonde finally asks his temporary roommate. 

"Eddie," he responds quick in his deep, raspy voice. Eddie pulls up a metal stool to sit on the other side of the narrow, high table. "And no need to be sorry. Big place and we can't all be as famous as you, wallbuilder. 'Sides, I've only been here a few months." 

"Yeah?" 

Fury rarely let in strays, but it wasn't unheard of. Especially if they had - or knew - something useful. 

"Yeah," is all Eddie says back. 

"Wouldn't peg you for a Greenie," Steve reaches - he knows he's not one of the Freed after traveling and staying in the hotel with them. "You're not skinny enough to be vegan."

"Nah, I'm not from the hippie joint." The big man shakes his head, then tilts it to the side, assessing. "You on the other hand are a tiny little thing. You a vegan, Steve?"

"I'm only a vegetarian. If I was a vegan, I would have felt the need to brag about it already," he jests - Eddie chuckles.

Steve gives a friendly smirk - pretending, being disarming, is coming slowly back to him. And he wants to make this man think they're getting along just swell because above his goggles, Eddie is sweating. It's not warm in their hole in the ground, not even warm outside this time of night, but rivelets are running down the bigger man's forehead. 

The blonde sees an opening. He pretends some more.

"Phew," Steve exhales, starts rolling up his jacket sleeves, "a bit toasty down here." He hopes he won't break out in goose bumps and give the game away. 

"Yeah, fuck. Thought it was just me," Eddie responds, pushing up his goggles. 

Eddie doesn't take his jacket off. Doesn't roll up his sleeves or even unbutton the front. What's he hiding? Another weapon? A suicide vest? Why wait to attack though? Why help Steve get this far if he's an Xer? 

"Leakin' like a goddamn sieve," Eddie mumbles and pulls up the bandana, tied in the back, over his whole face - he uses both hands to wipe the sweat away with it before settling it around his thick neck. 

Steve swears he's never seen this guy in his life because _he'd remember_ \- he's striking in a rugged sort of way, with incredibly full lips, a strong nose and intense eyes that seem to be constantly squinting. But, he reasons, there's probably fifty people in Claptrap his daily routine doesn't take him near often enough to get a good look. There's too many residents to all eat at once in the mess so meals are in shifts and a lot of people are constantly rotating through the unskilled tasks or, inversely, stuck doing the one thing they're good at again and again (like Bruce, who ate and slept at the clinic and who most people would never know existed until they got injured or sick). 

He can tell Eddie's pretty tanned from the intense, constant sunshine but he's ashen right now, with dark circles under his eyes. In fact, nice features aside, he looks like hot garbage. His whole face is still glistening with perspiration and his pupils - despite the grow lights - are huge. He seems restless, fidgeting and twitching, not keeping eye contact. Fumehead maybe?

They'd thought the _drinkers_ were fumeheads at first... 

"You got the flu'er somethin', Eddie?" Steve asks - syrupy like he used to talk to Jack sometimes before the big man caught on to him kissing up - as he starts to reach under the table slowly. 

"Ah, you've got a touch'a The City in your voice," the bigger man responds, ignoring his question. "Can't pinpoint where exactly."

"Brooklyn."

"Rick kid slummin' it?" Eddie jokes. "That why you sound so prep school?" 

Brooklyn had been a very trendy place for a while, hipsters and yuppies bumping up against - and pushing out - locals. Parts of it still were, but the rising ocean, crashing economic markets and a host of other factors had eroded it significantly by the time Steve was born. The City rose, The City plateaued, The City declined. Rent controlled housing, and those inside it, endured. 

"Nah. Ma just took diction very seriously. Didn't want me to sound like the tenement kid I was. You?" the mechanic responds, eyeing a dark vein pulsing hard on his companion's neck, just above the bandana. 

"All over really," the bigger man shrugs. "All five boroughs. Jersey too."

"God forbid," Steve jests, leaning forward a bit as if being friendly, but really feeling silently for the cubby under the table holding the gun. 

"Lookin' for this?" the bigger man asks, holding it up, silencer pointed at the ceiling. "Don'look so shocked. It's not my first rodeo in the 'pocalypse, kid. Thing I don't get is why you hid goin' for it when we're on the same team. Coulda just took it out in the open and showed me. You think I'm outta get you'er somethin'?" 

Eddie's voice is slurred a bit now and he's leaning forward, bending his wrist to itch his temple with the top of the barrel of the gun, making his jacket sleeve pull up. There's a mark there, an imperfect oval of punctures, each dark in the center with purplish edges. The veins up his arm and running down to disappear under his glove are black. 

Steve's seen wounds just like it. On the dead bodies at the wall. On the corpse that had sat back up, rabid and hungry. On Clint's arm. Eddie probably hasn't had Soldier blood like the archer though, maybe didn't even have the cocktail with the blue either. If whatever was in the bite could reanimate someone as a crazed monster, what did it do to a living person unchecked? 

Eddie notices Steve staring.

"Ahhh, this?" the bigger man chuckles.

He tucks his wounded arm in closer to his chest and pulls his sleeve up with his free hand. The gun points haphazardly towards Steve, then the wall, then Steve as Eddie works the fabric, then finally it aims back at the ceiling. 

"S'nothin'. It's shallow. Fucker barely got me. Ugly sunovabitch." 

Eddie looks up at Steve and the bigger man's eyes are all pupil, pitch black and shiny, the whites shot through with tiny dark veins. He grins, takes a delicate sniff. 

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you smell really good. You have a snack'er somethin' earlier? You smell like..." He leans closer, inhales through his nose again louder. "Peach cobbler." 

Steve has everything he can do to keep from shaking and he can tell by how Eddie's looking at him he's not doing the best job of schooling his facial expression. It's been a long time since he's had to placate someone dangerous. He's too out of practice at acting after all. Maybe he just cares about living more than he used to. His hand around the phone tightens, then slips from his pocket. 

"Hey, don' worry." Eddie reaches behind himself to tuck the handgun into the waistband of his pants. "Just grabbed it 'cause you seemed like you were lookin'ta pop me. Maybe you think I'm one'a them. I get that. We don' know each other."

The bigger man holds his hand out to Steve, the one connected to his wounded wrist. 

"Edward Brock. Freelance journalist." 

Steve slowly takes it. As they shake, he feels something ghost around his fingers. He looks down to see thin runners like black ink coming out of the wound on Eddie's wrist and spreading down the bigger man's hand to vine around his own. The mechanic holds his breath so he doesn't yell and calmly tries to pull back, but Eddie doesn't release him.

"Will'ya look at that," he half-whispers, transfixed. Eddie pokes at one thin tendril with his free hand. It wiggles, but doesn't stop moving forward. "Huh. They feel like...I don't know. Like liquid, but not." 

"Eddie, let go," Steve says firm and even.

The black tendrils, cool and slick, keep advancing, curling, searching. There's a little cut on Steve's forearm from his slide on the wind turbine platform - he'd gouged himself on a screw sticking up out of the sheet metal and had been far too distracted by everything else to have the Soldier heal it. The thin vines slide into it and he hisses. The wound stings, but mostly Steve feels how cold and almost gelatinous whatever the things are as they push into him. They seem to swell and shrink minutely, and he realizes they're _sucking_, pulsing, the sensation spreading up Steve's arm. 

Eddie makes a pained sound. No, not pained. When the mechanic looks up, the supposed journalist's mouth is hanging open and his brows are raised. His eyes are glazed, half-closed. 

"Ohhhhh," Eddie groans. "I can...feel them... feeling you. You're so...hot in there. They can taste...I can taste you." 

"Stop it! Please stop it!" Steve demands, no longer bothering to hide how freaked out he is, attempting desparately to yank his hand away.

The pulsing is stronger now, pleasant almost. There's no pain, just that intrusive crawling, sucking feeling of it inside him a dozen places. Steve feels warm, heavy, like his body wants to relax, to give in to it. 

"Jus'a lil more," Eddie slurs. "Jus' a lil -" 

Without warning Steve swings the knife from where he'd finally gripped it under the chair around and down, hard. The blow chops Eddie's wrist half off his arm just above the bite. Steve slams the blade through the nearly severed hand, pinning it to the table, and stands as he pulls back. The bigger man is screaming and screaming, but then goes quiet, just staring at the wound. Thicker tendrils emerge from it and Steve watches them flow in amorphous, black, glistening shapes. Some start to ooze over into Eddie's pinned hand, wrap around it, pulling it tight to his arm, but others flow farther, towards the blonde.

Steve can feel the thin tendrils still under his skin trying to suction harder, to stay attached, as he yanks back with more force. He puts a foot on the table for leverage and finally rips free, a fine mist of his blood spraying out as the things pop lose from inside his wound. Steve runs to the wall, grabs the rifle. Eddie is standing now, yanking the knife free. Steve whirls on him, stares in horror as he lifts his arm - his hand is totally reattached, the black viscous goo tendrils sucking back inside him. His flesh is healed when they disappear, but the bitemark remains. 

"It's cool," Eddie promises. "Don't be afraid. I'm fine now. Really." 

The bigger man leans his head up. His eyes are completely black now, whites and all. Eddie licks his lips and loudly sniffs.

Under Eddie's skin, something ripples.

The mechanic empties the rifle into Eddie's chest and the bigger man stumbles back into the corner. Steve drops the now useless weapon, runs to the door, yanks up the secondary latch then wrenches at the stuck handle with all he's worth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie back on his feet, doubled over. The bigger man slowly stands upright as the handle finally lifts up and the door opens. 

Steve grabs a handhold in the tunnel floor, pulls himself up. When he turns to pull the door shut he sees thick tendrils emerge from the holes in Eddie's chest. Some start to wrap around his body, enveloping him in shiny, flowing black, but others extend, reach out towards Steve.

The mechanic slams the door, digs in his pocket for the locks. He only has the first one fastened when there's a loud bang and the door shudders. 

"I just need a little more, Steve!" 

Eddie's voice, gravelly and muffled by the steel.

BANG

"Just a little more! Come on, man. Be a pal. I won't hurt you. I promise." 

BANG

"I JUST FUCKING NEED A LITTLE MORE!" Eddie screams, growly and nearly hysterical.

Steve gets the second lock closed with trembling fingers.

BANG BANG BANG

Silence.

"Steeeeeve." The voice that calls out now doesn't sound human. It's like Eddie's but impossibly deeper, echoing almost, as if it's two voices speaking together. "Moooore." 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

He fixes the third lock in place, pulls out his little flashlight from a cargo pocket and finds the bar in its hideyhole. He turns the latch with it then watches to see if the door will hold, the beam moving everywhere in his shaking hand. His other goes to the grenades. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

Eddie, or whatever he is, throws himself against the door over and over. It vibrates but doesn't budge. There's an airtight seal around the door - to keep the pot smoke in - so Steve doesn't think the _black stuff_ can get out. After a few more minutes of waiting and watching, his heart pounding and wounded arm stinging, the mechanic finally crawls out of the tunnel and pushes up the trapdoor and pile of stuff on top. He scampers out, starts to let it drop but thinks better of it, catching it to lower it slow and quiet even as his insides are screaming.

Steve slowly stands, trying to get his frantic breathing under control, memories of childhood asthma attacks flooding him. He closes his eyes, fills his lungs completely, holds it and slowly lets it out. He takes his trembling hand off the grenades, puts his opposite one in his other pocket, grips the phone as he repeats the process a dozen times. Finally he lets the last breath out with a relieved sigh. 

"There you are," a chipper voice says behind him.

When he turns a young, attractive man with a maniac grin hits him in the forehead with the butt of a rifle. Steve staggers back, falls into a pile of crates and junk, arms going up defensively. The young man flies on him, pushes the barrel of the gun across his throat and presses. The blonde digs all ten of his nails down his attacker's face, but he doesn't pull back, doesn't even stop smiling. 

"This is my mission. My task. He'll be so pleased with me," he hears the young man mumbling before everything grays out. "For his glory."


	124. Every day, I crucify myself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even immortals can be martyrs.

The drinkers have nearly succeeded in pulling Buck off Zola now that the doctor has started to use his strength more tactically. The Soldier is trying with all he is worth not to be unseated, not to let this monster - in every sense of the word - get the upper hand. Not to let him inside Claptrap. Not to let him near Steve or his friends. He knows this man will torture them, experiment on them, kill them, without the faintest hint of remorse. 

Buck yanks his metal arm, quick and forceful, dragging the drinkers attached to it by the cables forward. Several lose their grip and others fall to the ground. Suddenly he is shot with what looks like several grappling hooks from behind. They punch through his chest with agonizing force, cutting through muscle and lung tissue, splitting bone. He pushes the pain to a small corner of his mind, focuses on the task at hand, on keeping his bond to Steve closed, even as he coughs out blood. He would not allow the little mechanic to suffer nor to be compelled to attempt coming to his aid. The grappling hooks open over his ribs, anchoring in his body, then he's pulled forcefully back. 

Just when he thinks he will be removed from his enemy, the cables on the grappling hooks go slack. Washington and Ramos are there, the latter tearing through the drinkers while the former dives on Zola. Luis must have seen him in need of assistance and sent them. Perhaps his bond with his friend is not completely shut and the green-eyed man sensed his distress. Soon the other Soldiers are helping him restrain Arnim while Buck pulls one of the anchors out of his own body, the cable sliding through the wound coated in his dark purple blood, and uses it as a crude tool to attack Zola's neck once again. The doctor screams in agony as one thick, sharp point buries in the disc between his vertebrae - Buck would be lying if he said it was not an incredibly satisfying sound. He pulls up as hard as he can.

Suddenly, Arnim goes quiet.

"Now!" the doctor commands loudly. 

A row of Xers emerge from the slowly curling smoke near the moat with rifles raised. Buck is unconcerned when he realizes they have tranq guns - while the people in the facility had found stimulants that could assist the Soldiers with reacclimating after cryofreeze, they had never discovered a tranquilizer or toxin that would actually work to slow or injure the Soldiers. The Protocol Zero chemical could harm or destroy them, but it required the administration of large quantities over time, far more than even hundreds of darts could deliver. 

The Soldiers are peppered with dozens of thick needles. Buck does not even pause in his work, only vaguely noticing several pinging off his metal arm to land in the scrubgrass. He realizes seconds later he has made a huge miscalculation. The freezing burn is unmistakable as it spreads through him at every point of entry. He looks down at his flesh arm - the veins near several injection sites are black. 

He topples over, convulsing in agony, muscles going rigid. From where he sprawls in the dirt he can see Washington and Ramos still attempting to hold Zola down. With their limiters they do not process pain the same way as he does. Still, their movements slow and stiffen as the poison spreads through their systems. Soon the doctor easily knocks them off and they are unable to rise. 

Arnim stands calmly, dusts himself off, a smug little smile on his scarred face. 

"Well, that was unpleasant for me. But necessary." He kicks Ramos in the face. "Much like harvesting the venom from my little gray experiments for these darts. Tedious work. And I lost so many soldiers trying to restrain them, but we got better at it." Zola pushes Washington face down in the dirt with one boot to her back. "That camera footage from Rumlow's little hallway of death was so useful. Seeing the way you reacted to the bite, the pain and weakness it caused you. The damage to your coordination. Your inability to heal until the venom was removed." Zola scans the wall and the opening into the community. "It's unfortunate I couldn't wait for the last one of you, but you three were doing a bang up job of removing my head so I just couldn't hold out any longer. Where _is_ Soldier 21, anyway?" 

Buck musters enough strength to take a swipe at the doctor's legs. 

"Ah ah ah," Arnim scolds playfully, stepping out of his reach swiftly. He gestures to his posse. "Restrain them. Bring the forklift." 

They bind 22 and 24 with foot after foot of steel cable, wrapping them up like mummies. They try to resist but can barely move - their position on Zola to either side of Buck and slightly ahead, and lack of metal appendages, caused them to take more of the darts than him. He finds it impossible to get to his feet, but swings at his attackers with his metal arm, crushing one's hip and breaking another's leg. Finally several dozen grab the cables still coming out of Buck's back, pulling the anchors tight to his chest again and yanking him onto his back. They start to drag him towards the moat. 

A forklift comes out of one of their big cargo trucks and slowly crosses the debris bridge Zola had made over the smoldering trench. The Xers rig the two cables connected to Buck to it and as the tines on the front of it raise he is pulled several feet off the ground. He struggles as they bind his legs, but is too weak to free himself. His blood feels like liquid nitrogen flowing through his veins, as if it's melting his organs, muscles locking and spasming.

Within the community, the fight had moved away from the wall, many Claptrappers taking to the semi-cover of rooves and pre-made barricades to continue picking off the enemy. Buck sees a man in what seems to be garb typical of a Claptrapper come to the opening where the gate had been - he lifts his arms, making the X. A plant. A stowaway. The young man has ten scratches running nearly vertically down his face, five on each side from just under his eyes to the edge of his jaw, and a very familiar shape slung over his shoulder. 

"S-s-steve," Buck barely manages as the little mechanic is carried out of the junktown and dumped into the scrub at Zola's feet. 

The young man who brought the blonde drops to his knees in front of the doctor.

"Sir," he says with reverence. "This is the one you wanted. Steve Rogers."

"Is he alive?" Zola asks, obvious threat in his tone. 

"Of course, sir. Just as you asked." 

The Soldier experiences a wave of relief. He had not received anything from the blonde when he felt for him through their bond, trying his best to hold back his own pain. Steve must be unconscious. It occurs to Buck if Zola wanted Steve alive, he must have a plan for him - the Soldier shudders. 

"Good boy, Nathan," the doctor praises his follower, resting a hand on the young man's head, then carding his fingers through the short reddish-brown, wavy hair. 

"Thank you, sir. Anything for you." The young man reaches in his pockets, holds up his hands, presenting two empty glass vials with needles at the tip in one and two grenades in the other. "He had these in his pockets, sir." 

"They used the red!" Zola sneers, voice finally shedding its veneer of calm as he takes all of the offered items. 

He puts the grenades in his chest pocket, examines the high-tech syringes before throwing them into the dirt in disgust. Dropping down next to Steve, he rolls the small man onto his back. Zola checks the mechanic's pulse, his bone structure, pulls back his eyelids, lifts his shirt and examines him thoroughly. Buck growls throughout, but can do nothing else. He is struggling as hard as he can but making no headway in his weakened, pained state. It is only through immense force of will that he moves at all and every second compounds the venom's effects.

Steve groans and moves sluggishly, starting to come around. Buck can feel his pain and confusion, tries his best to let him know he is close without overwhelming the little mechanic with his own sensations. 

"How long have you had him?" the doctor demands. 

"Twenty minutes, sir. It took some time to get through the battleground," Nathan responds apologetically. "The fighting has spread through half the community."

Zola stands and Steve slowly leans up, coughing and bleary-eyed. An Xer comes forward, points a handgun at the mechanic's head from a few feet away. 

"He would show signs by now," Zola says to Nathan, then eyes the blonde. "You obviously didn't use it on yourself, Rogers. This will only work to my advantage, foolish boy. Whoever you gave it to will mutate very quickly, too fast to get a grasp on what they are changing into. They'll become dangerous and have little if any self-control. They could be wreaking havoc on your silly little junktown as we speak."

"Or they could be ripping through your soldiers like tissue paper," Steve offers. 

Zola obviously schools his expression, trying to stay calm. "Doubtful," he says tersely.

"I'm sorry I didn't find him faster, sir," Nathan grovels. "Let me make it up to you, sir. I'll do anything." 

The doctor glances down at his obedient puppet, contemplating what task to give him next, debating if he needs to punish him for this unfortunate turn, when his attention is drawn elsewhere. Three blood-spattered Xers are dragging Natasha out of the community, flailing and screaming. They bring her straight to the doctor.

"The woman, as requested," one of the Followers offers. 

"You're even uglier than I remember, Z man," Nat quips. 

Her ankles are bound and there's a man holding each of her arms, another gripping the back of her bodysuit between her shoulder blades with a gun pressed to the back of her head.

"It's been a long time, Ms. Romanov," Zola offers.

"Since your little tests," she sneers. "I was less than thrilled you wanted to put my DNA in one of those things." She nods at Ramos on the ground.

"You should be flattered you were considered. I asked to oversee your review personally," the doctor says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Your file was so impressive. Your parents, people of such unremarkable stock, killed by the government of the new Soviet Republic for speaking out. And you, sent to be reeducated at eight. A death sentence for most. But you endured, were selected by The Red Room above hundreds in the work camps. And you excelled there. First kill at eleven. Missions without a field handler by fourteen. Leading death squads and infiltration rings by eighteen. Even your defection to the United States at twenty-six was brilliantly timed and flawlessly executed." 

"You writing a book, Armin?" the redheaded assassin queries.

"_Arnim_," he reminds her with a frown. It slowly changes to a smile. "Ahh, a manipulation tactic. Trying to make me feel insignificant, as if you don't even remember my name. Trying to get a rise out of me. And you have." 

Zola shoots a look to Nathan, thinking of an obvious use for him. A reward and a punishment. The doctor gestures to his own crotch. The drinker knee-walks to his master, unzips his scorched pants, takes out his prick and swallows it without hesitation, a dozen other Xers and their Claptrap prisoners watching. 

"You see, I could use you like this if I wanted," he informs Natasha as she watches blank faced. "Have every tooth pulled from your head and apparatus to hold you down if you wouldn't break under torture or coercion. But you're so much more than this. So much more than a mindless tool for satisfying base urges." 

Zola gazes down at his cock disappearing into Nathan's mouth again and again - the young man looks up at him with naked trust and affection. The doctor's eyes shift back to Nat. 

"You are brilliant. Ruthless. Gifted. Powerful. You know when the side you're on is losing and you move efficiently to the one that will see you through." 

He grips Nathan's hair, moving the young man forcefully on his length as he pushes his hips forward - after a few hard thrusts, the drinker is audibly gagging. 

"I'm offering you a life where you control hundreds, thousands eventually. Where your every whim is their deepest desire. Where your punishments are not just accepted, but welcomed. Where you're utterly in control, with no limits." 

He waves a hand at Nathan, like a game show host's assistant displaying a prize. Zola moves him faster with the other, still tangled in his locks. The young man is red-faced, tears streaming down his cheeks. After a few more brutal snaps of his hips, Zola buries himself down the young man's throat as far as possible, holding his head firmly so he can't pull away. The doctor empties his balls with a grunt. Nathan makes the most horrific choking sounds, snot bubbling out of his nose, his chest heaving for air. Arnim yanks the young man off his softening cock, uses his grip to turn his gasping face towards Natasha. There's black fluid dribbling out of his mouth. 

"What do you say?" the doctor asks like he's speaking to a child.

"Thank you, sir," Nathan barely manages, more of the black goo spewing out as he speaks. Zola drops him and he falls to all fours, coughing up the rest. 

Natasha's face remains impassive. Unimpressed. 

"You would be my virtual equal," Zola continues. "Second only to me. Your opinions and desires considered with the utmost care." 

"And what would you want in return?" Natasha queries.

"Your wisdom in handling the day to day affairs of my legion of killers as we expand our empire. Your companionship, in whatever form you choose that to take. Above all, your loyalty, starting now." He locks eyes with her, his own now as silver and shiny as a new chrome bumper. "Where is the blue serum?" 

"Don't tell him shit, Nat!" Steve rasps. 

Natasha balances her weight on her arms and swings both feet into the mechanic's chest. Steve - eyes wide with shock - falls back, bound hands tangling in the scrubgrass under him. 

"I'm sick of your big mouth, runt. Lay there for a while and think before you speak again," the redheaded assassin says calmly to the blonde before turning her head to face Zola. "The blue is gone. Used up."

"Do you know on whom? Have they manifested abilities?" Zola demands, concern lacing his voice. "I assumed Fury would have locked it away from the others, the fool. Too noble to use it himself." 

"Here's the kicker. They used it on almost everyone," Nat responds.

"Impossible! Only I know how to adjust the syringes," the doctor retorts. 

"Steve injected it into _fucking canteloupe_, blended it up into margaritas, and handed it out," the redhead explains, annoyance on her features. "What a waste."

Zola eyes her for a long time, judging the veracity of her words. It's too ridiculous to be a lie. His face twists - brows drawing in, eyes going wide and even more metallic, thin lips trembling before they spread open in an inhuman scream of rage. He turns to Steve, fangs fully extended, fists clenching as he kicks the mechanic in the ribs - the sound of them breaking is audible even over the gunfire and flames. Buck's struggling intensifies again behind them, the forklift creaking with the effort of his movements. 

"You little shit!" the doctor screams. "You'll die slow. So slow. But not before your precious _Buck_. Behold, your champion," the doctor seethes, gesturing to the brunette Soldier, trussed up and helpless to escape despite his desparate flailing. "He can die for your many sins." Zola motions to one of his Followers. "Douse _it_ with kerosene and bring me a flare."


	125. Red skies at night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis deals with the past and the present.

Luis slides between buildings, behind hastily erected barricades. Other Claptrappers occasionally notice him, try to grab at him, to keep him under cover as he recklessly bobs and weaves in and out of enemy fire. Eventually he finds himself in the thick of close quarters combat. Unarmed, he desparately eyes the bodies he passes for any weapon. When a cannibal runs at him wielding a hatchet he has no choice but to punch her cold. He's never hit a woman, even when one had come at him, and the idea turns his stomach with shame at what his mother would think. But if there were ever a time to treat the genders equally this was it; after all, she's wearing a skirt made of human femurs. 

A bigger guy marked with the telltale X - a small skull inked on his face - runs at Luis with a machete and he snatches up the woman's weapon on instinct. The green-eyed man isn't a trained fighter, but he's been in plenty of scraps since elementary school - he dodges the swing of the man's blade narrowly and pops up, rabbit punching his assailant in the windpipe. When the bigger man stumbles back, Luis swings the hatchet into his forehead. The man and Luis just stand there for a minute, staring into each other's eyes, before the smaller man pulls the blade out. Blood spurts everywhere and the Xer collapses. 

Fuck. 

Luis is officially a killer. He's done it by proxy with the Soldiers, but that was different. Impersonal. Clean. Literally. Unlike now. There's hot, viscous blood all over his face and splattered on his neck. 

Fuck.

He's just cleaved a guy's skull open. His mind tries to pull away from reality, detach from his body. Stumbling back against a wall, he doubles over and finally gives in to the urge to throw up that's been twisting in him since he first saw Win dead on the ground. Huddled there, panting, he can't make himself move even as chaos unfolds twenty feet away. He tries to make himself get up and his body just won't react.

Luis hears the old voices telling him he's a coward, a wuss, not a _real man_. 

_Maricón_, Javier and some of the others would say to him in school or on the streets after, starting from the time he was nine years old. 

_Faggot._

_Pretty boy. _

_Chica_, they'd say, making kissy noises at him. _Mira flaca._

He could do something about being scrawny at least. It wasn't like with his build he'd ever be a big guy, but when he ate right and worked out he could put on muscle. By his mid-teen years he was cut enough to get romantic attention without much effort and all the girls talking to him shut up some of the bullies. He'd dropped a lot of that mass during the bug and on the road, unable to eat even semi-regularly until Winter started taking care of him at the apartment building. Once, after they'd lived together a few months, the Soldier had gently pincered Luis' side between two fingers and frowned at how little body fat he had - he'd insisted on the smaller man eating more calories after. 

It had made Luis laugh more than once, the big, scary "monster" reading the nutrition labels on canned goods and advising him accordingly. At first, Luis had thought it was simply a matter of his body being in good enough condition to provide blood regularly, but eventually the concern in Winter's eyes became less subtle. The Soldier had always protected him - from his own _need_, from aggressors, from the elements, even from Luis' own self-harm when what he now recognized as depression and survivor's guilt made it hard for the younger man to take care of himself properly. When some part of Luis subconsciously wanted to waste away. To disappear. 

All Luis had done since meeting back up with his friend, burnt and suffering in that high school gymnasium, was try to repay that kindness. And now Winter needs him more than ever. He has to get up. He has to. 

His body is frozen in place, his mind going back to Queens against his will. 

_Jincha_, Javier and the others would say, or pote de leche, mocking his skin. His Puerto Rican side of the family had ancestors mostly from Europe - Spain and Germany - and very little Taino, so his father passed for any other continent-born white American until he opened his mouth and his thick accent spilled out. While Luis didn't look Caucasian, judging from how often he was stopped by law enforcement and asked about his residency while he was walking through the fancy neighborhood the gifted school was in, he was definitely light compared to a lot of the Boricua and Dominicans in his neighborhood. Even his mother's side of the family gently ribbed him about his complexion - they were descended almost entirely from indigenous Mayans and much darker. Ironically, his mother took shit for that, not being light enough. There were even Latino men who wouldn't date her because of it. 

Colorism in his own community always baffled him, like anyone could control their melanin. Red is the only color he can see right now. Blood is trickling over his black eyebrows and nearly into his eyes. He should be used to it. He's seen blood a lot, from his own face, his split knuckles. The hundreds of bodies he's passed by now.

And somehow the guys in his hood managed to make him being "pale" into further proof he was feminine. _Pretty boy doesn't hang outside in the sun._ And he didn't. When was there time? Get up, help his grandparents, feed his sister, get everything ready for them, bus, school, bus home, get dinner and baths for everyone, homework, sleep. Three, four hours if he was lucky. After abuela and abuelo passed and his sister was big enough to handle herself, the time spent on them was spent working instead. His uncle's auto shop. His cousin's tattoo parlor. His mother's salon. Odd jobs. Anything to help his family. To have a buck for some weed to fucking unwind and forget. 

Buck. He has to get up. He has to get up...

_Blanquito,_ they'd called him too when they saw him around after he was transferred to the gifted school. They thought he was stuck up now, too bougie for them, thinking he was something he wasn't, forgetting he lived in the hood like the rest of them. How the fuck could he forget? He walked the last few blocks home through a chorus of screaming babies and blaring music and sirens, dudes on the corners offering things far stronger than weed. Things had gotten so much worse the last decade before the bug, everywhere, humanity going collectively crazy as the Earth sickened. The poor and working class were hit the hardest, like always. But he kept going, kept striving.

That was his life as long as he could remember. Get knocked down, get up again. And again. And again. For his family. 

Buck is his family now. 

He has to get up. 

The female cannibal already is. 

She's shaking off the pain of his hit as she gets to her feet. Some stupid, sad part of his brain connects enough little things in her features to remind him of Maritza. As if he doesn't feel shitty enough already. When Luis had tried to emulate his dad in high school - a different girl under his arm every few weeks, sometimes even two fighting over him at the park when he had the rare afternoon free to play a pick up game - the teasing about his supposed sexual preferences cut down from most people. He should have been happy, on top of the world, drowning in all this _totito_, the envy of so many of the guys who had once mocked him. 

And the attention from the girls made him feel good, special, noticed. The star of his own show instead of an extra. A stage hand. A personal assistant. 

His dad said what he was _supposed_ to be doing as a red blooded teenage male was fucking everything that moved. Treat the girls nice, make it good for them, sure, but don't get tied down. Attached. Don't make his mistakes and have kids and a wife too young. Have fun. Experience life. But his mother would give him this look sometimes when she talked about his "girlfriends," the side-eye of disappointment from someone who has been cheated on and lied to by a charismatic pretty boy again and again. It twisted Luis' stomach with shame that he could be just like his unfaithful, selfish father. 

Still, that had not stopped him from his womanizing. He'd see a pretty girl look his way and it was like a completely different person took him over. He could hear the words coming out of his mouth, feel his face and body making certain movements as he flirted and cajoled, exuding confidence, even as inside he felt shy, terrified that his bullshit would be seen through.

Maritza had, immediately. He had tried to chat her up one afternoon at the park. By then his game was a well-oiled machine, but she had looked him dead in the eyes and said when the real Luis wanted to talk, look her up. He deleted all the girls' numbers from his phone and took a hard look at himself, at the "cool guy suit" he was wearing, at the act he put on to be accepted, to be wanted. A few months later, he saw her around and introduced himself like a grown-up with a handshake. He opened up to her like no one else and under his hard, flexible, shiny armor he was so painfully soft. They were inseparable until she died in the first wave, right after his funny, clever, lying father. 

And here this woman is coming at him, drawing a knife. And he won't fight Maritza. Not even her cheap imitation. This time he won't get up. 

Her chest explodes from behind and new, hot blood joins what's already congealing on him. Paul runs over with his rifle, eyes the corpse on the ground with the skull tattoo and the hatchet mark in its forehead, then looks to the weapon in question clutched in the green-eyed man's hand. 

"You fucking got him. He's dead. He's dead," Paul says with something like wonder.

"I..." Luis swallows, choking on his guilt, on years and years of it. "He came at me so fast. I didn't mean to..." 

Paul's expression changes to confusion as he tilts his head to the side, then it changes to understanding. He moves to press his back against the wall, standing in front of where Luis is still hunched over, rifle ready should anyone else come at them.

"Okay, okay. I get it. This is the first time it's been so personal. You handled the Soldiers so well taking out the baddies I just assumed you'd done it yourself before. You're a sweet guy. I should have known something like this would be hard for you to stomach." Paul eyes him hard for a moment. "But you fucking listen to me. Don't you spend a single second feeling bad for this trash. He got so much quicker of a death than he deserved."

"You don't know that. I used to run with killers. I just needed to eat, to survive. Maybe he was like me. Maybe he didn't even wanna be here. Maybe he has a girlfriend somewhere, waiting for him," Luis chokes out.

"Luis, sweetie, If he has someone he called his _girlfriend_ somewhere, it's a very pretty, thin guy tied up in a closet."

Luis finally looks up at Paul, brows furrowing, not following him.

"He's a rapist pig with a very specific type." Paul raises his eyebrows. "This is the piece of shit. This is the scumbag that -" The petite man's voice cracks and he stops, takes a deep breath. "This is the scumbag that _forced me_ and killed my Harry. You just did me, and every other twink in the world, a huge favor. Now I'm going to do you one." Paul shoots an Xer as they round a nearby building, then starts methodically reloading his high-tech rifle. "I'm going to cover you while you run your fine little ass over to that wall and get the Soldiers moving. Last I saw Buck he was taking on the big Z alone. He needs your help. I'll brush your hair and listen to your problems later. Right now, get the fuck up and go." 

Luis hyperventilates for a couple of seconds, then slaps himself hard in the face, stands upright and nods. As soon as Paul shoulders his rifle, ready to fire, Luis runs towards one of the staircases built into the wall. Paul's rifle goes off again and again, and soon he hears it joined by another he recognizes as Jasper's. Xers and cannibals drop from his path and all around him as he zigzags through the battle. Finally he's at the wall, climbing up to the catwalk. There are bodies piled, snipers using them as cover as they lay out on the glass block and fire down at the enemy fighting their compatriots. Luis hops over them, frantically searching for the Soldiers on the top of the wall, then - lifting the binoculars still hanging around his neck - inside it in the snarls of warring people below.

Nothing.

He hears something outside the wall - _now_ someone yells - and looks out into the scrubland. A cluster of Crossbones' people are shooting what appear to be tranq darts into Winter, Ramos and Washington, all of them atop Zola. He freezes as the echo of his friend's pain hits him through their pushed down bond. He knows the feeling from earlier - the venom from the grays. Bullets whiz past but he's locked to the spot, the burn-freeze spreading through him, horrific even in this muted state. A big hand yanks him down onto the floor of the catwalk, behind several corpses. He regains his focus, blocking Buck out, and looks up to see Red laid out in front of him. One of his long arms is stretched out to clutch the front of Luis' jacket.

"What the fuck?!" the green-eyed man exclaims. "This shit again, Red? You're supposed to be out there, helping Buck!"

Red just stares at him, blank-faced.

"Soldier, is your limiter chip malfunctioning?" Luis demands. 

The big ginger opens his mouth, closes it. An expression melts _onto_ the Soldier's face - chagrin, fear, a wordless bid for sympathy.

"Okay, man," Red says, eyes wide. "Don'freak ou'on me, but I'm nah...I'm nah chipped. I was in the facility when the lady had me... Sorry about tha'. And...in the back of the truck, when I... While you were asleep..." His pale gray cheeks turn pastel purple in embarrassment. "Bu' there was another shootou' at Crossbones' place, after you all took off in the truck and we wasted the asshole. I took a couple bullets to the noggin' and poof. No more limiter. Healed righdup after. Was a real mindfuck. Just, bam, awake. 'S good I didn' listen to you though, righ'? Now tha' we see what Zola did to'em. I've heard you both use the girls' words so I sen'em out to help Barnes...Buck...and I hung back to see wha' the old bastard had up'is sleeve and tha' was smar' because otherwise I'd be poisoned too and now we can make a plan..." He takes a brief break from his rambling to inhale. "Righ', Luis?" 

Luis' eyes go wide and he stares at Red in total silence for a long few moments, then he starts flailing, trying to pull away from him. 

"You're... You're awake!" Luis squeaks. "Really awake! And you're... You're from... _the Bronx_?" 

"We can' all be from Queens," Red quips, pulling Luis closer, both men laying on their bellies, faces half a foot apart. "Chill out."

Luis frantically smacks at his hand. Red tightens his grip on the smaller man, gives him a hard shake. 

"Calm tha hell down! I haven' hurt you in all this time, have I? Why would I star'now?" 

"You tried to bite me before! When your limiter was too low!" 

"That wasn' me. Red deals with the whole... bloodthirsty thing. We're all topped off now, wha' with all the killin' at the yard, so you ain' gotta worry about tha'. Sides, he wasn' gonna kill you. He likes you."

"What the fuck does any of that mean?" Luis yells. "You're Red!" 

"Nooo, _I'm Jon_. The Soldier... he calls himself Red, since you started callin' us tha'...he handles the murder parts. And some other stuff. Look, tha's not importan' righ' now. Whatever you tell me, he'll know, and we're both on yer side, so...ideas?" 

"Why didn't you say anything?" Luis asks, looking very guilty suddenly. 

"I didn' think me bein' from the Bronx was pertinen'."

"Not that, you big ginger asshole!" the smaller man hisses, slapping at him. "That you're like...aware in there! That you're still...you. Human you."

"Cause I knew you'd all freak ou' if you thought I wasn' strictly _under control_. And I'd either ge' turned inta mincemeat'er hafta leave. And I ain't gah'no place'ta'go, everyone I know likely bein' _dead_ and all."

"Fuck! I've been... I've been bossing you around, all this time, and you just put up with it. You saved me. On the wind turbine. Even though I was such an asshole." 

"Don' beat yerself up. You were jus'tryin' ta'help yer friends, protec'yer town. Besides, yer tha'firs' person ta'be nice ta'me in eighty years. Even though you thoughd I was a mindless zombie." Red smiles and it's surprisingly disarming for a huge gray man with copper eyes and two sets of fangs. "I wanna help. Really. Lemme help." 

"Okay, okay. We'll keep your... situation under wraps. Anything you do, they'll think I told you to do." 

"Natasha comin'," Red says quietly. 

Seconds later Luis hears her call him from behind.

"If you two are making out I'm sad I wasn't invited," she quips, then shoots an Xer taking aim at her from below.

When Luis looks over his shoulder, Paul and Jasper are with her. 

"Okay," Luis says, looking back at Red with a hint of a smile. "We got the players, we just need a plan."


	126. Plans A to Z(ola)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang test their collective metal against the mind of the doctor.

It's Natasha's idea to let herself be captured. Several Xers had commented as they came at her earlier that Zola wanted her brought to him alive - she'd killed them with ruthless efficiency, not at all interested in finding out what that twisted fuck would want from her. She can already guess. Nat put up enough of a fight to be believable with another group, after talking with Luis and the others, and wasted a few of them before letting the remainder think they'd bested her. 

The amateurs didn't even bind her hands and they only used rope on her ankles. This would be even easier than she'd thought. 

She hadn't planned for Steve to be in play - she's surprised to see him when she's brought out. Luis' concern about the "helper" who had went off with the mechanic must have been founded, or the pathetic lackey she almost felt sorry for as he coughed out Arnim's load had gotten the better of Steve and the mysterious Claptrapper. Not without cost. She could guess the gouges on his cheeks were from the kid. 

Steve was like a crazed badger when you cornered him and so slippery. Knocking him on his back at her first chance - and really, wasn't it only a matter of time before Steve opened his yap to say something stupidly brave or snotty and gave her an excuse - had served several purposes. He'd be out of the line of fire and, more importantly, it was the easiest way to hide his hands. Brock, the sadist, had used wire on the kid - she knew from the marks on the blonde's wrists when they'd met - and she could guess it was because rope couldn't hold him.

Steve must have realized what she was up to, because he feigned being hurt more than he was, laying there gasping and coughing like his chest was injured. He'd always been clever, wily, capable of tolerating immense pain; she knows he'll find a way free, even if he has to dislocate his thumbs. Hopefully the spindly build of his body was enough to slip free with time to loosen the ropes. His "guard" isn't terribly attentive - his eyes keep flicking everywhere, rarely on Steve for more than a few seconds. Drinker headcase from the looks of him, just like the scratched one who had carried him out.

This is still on track. They can still do this. 

Telling Zola the blue serums were also used was a risk - he could have killed Steve right away in retaliation. But if he hadn't known, he would have tortured Steve or Buck to learn their location. She doubted the Soldier would survive much injury in his weakened state and if Arnim hurt Steve, Buck may even offer the other Soldiers' words as a bargaining chip to try to save him. There was still a chance Zola would try to obtain the commands, but judging by how damaged the chipped Soldiers are from his own planned attack, it seems likely he only wants to destroy them. Then they're out of play permanently, no worries someone else can control them. 

Natasha hopes Zola doesn't ask for the words. Buck's will is strong and he's determined not to let the doctor gain anymore power than he already has, but the Soldier is weak for Steve - no matter how well she believes the blonde would handle torture, she's not sure his boyfriend could watch that and not offer absolutely anything to stop it. She knows she'd give the words up for Clint, everyone else be damned. 

Clint. Clint and Arnim's fucking monsters. 

This chrome-eyed, probable former incel hurt Nat's man. And nobody hurts her man except her. 

And the grenades Zola had deflected at the wind turbine... Luis had told her about...

No. Nat can't think about _her_ right now, or her focus will slip. 

Natasha had realized as they'd all huddled atop the wall brainstorming that even a man as calculating and seemingly dispassionate as Arnim had to have his moments where his ego, his desires, his anger, got the better of him. 

Like when his most dangerous enemy was hung from a forklift about to be Winter Soldier barbecue for instance, he'll at least take a few minutes to gloat before he lights him up. 

When his prized serums are gone, stolen from his grasp forever, he'll need to drag out hurting the person responsible, which means he won't kill Steve right away. 

When the gorgeous redhead he was so interested in has been dragged to him with her bodysuit unzipped just so (done herself before her faked capture) he won't be able to help making offers he thinks are highbrow and deep even though to her they sound as cheesy and desparate as any other pick up line from a horny douchebag when his eyes flick to her cleavage. 

After seeing enough of him at her tests those years ago she knows he's just a man like any other, no matter how intelligent he is. She was a master spy and assassin after all, trained to read people, to manipulate them, to guess their motivations, anticipate their moves. And it wasn't just her planning on that glass catwalk as the enemy had strung Buck up. 

Jasper had a similar background as her, but with even more experience large-scale planning, plotting, maneuvering. 

Luis never forgets a single detail (a curse if she's ever heard of one, but useful now). He only needed the quickest of glances over the wall through his binoculars to relay the advancing situation without being seen. He'd remembered the tools in the cab of the truck, now smashed near the entrance below, and the contents of the "med cases" in the asset crate, not to mention has the most complete understanding of the Soldiers' physiology. 

Even Paul had a very straightforward, helpful idea the others hadn't immediately considered. 

If only they had Fury. Fifty years of knowledge, of subterfuge and tactics, gone in the press of a few buttons. Couldn't the bastard have held out a little longer, saw how things panned out before taking the noble (easy) way out?

It has to be enough. They have to be enough. 

Their obstacles are numerous. 

They need to free Buck and the other Soldiers, and somehow get them moving. That means distracting Zola, which means putting Red into the field, which means removing the tranq darts from play to keep him from being taken down. The venom in them could at best paralyze or kill, and at worst _turn_, any of the humans. Plus there's the several dozen Xer soldiers still with the doctor to consider. 

Letting herself be brought to Zola was risky, but she needed to buy time and direct his attention away from hastily ending the Soldiers and torturing Steve and Buck. The doctor's stupid chatter, his attempt to impress and turn her, the distraction of the used up serums, had gotten those still inside the few precious minutes they needed. 

Time enough for Red and Luis to retrieve the supplies the green-eyed man had mentioned, load them in the backpack Steve had given him earlier, gather arms and outfit themselves with Soldier goggles and masks. Time enough for the big ginger, with Luis hanging on his back, to move around to the other side of the wall away from Zola's view and slide down in a lightly guarded area, to sneak silently in the semi-darkness over to the moat, to hide in the billowing smoke along its edge. 

Time enough for Paul to put his idea into action. 

Time for Jasper to collect Vic and Sharon and return with them to Paul on the catwalk, to reload, plan their shots.

The Xers are bringing the requested kerosene for Buck a lot more quickly than Nat expected. They must have had it at the ready. Arnim had a foolproof plan for everything, or at least she was sure he believed that. It was the way his mind worked - list the obstacles, consider the variables, plan for any and all fluctuations. He was arrogant but not sloppy; however he'd shown impulsivity with some of his earlier actions so he wasn't all cold calculation. There would be no long delay once Buck was doused; the doctor wouldn't play with him very long, wouldn't taunt Steve with his imminent demise for an hour the way Rumlow would have. 

She had bought them all the time she could. It had to be enough. 

Several of the Xers douse Buck as another brings the doctor a flare. He grins down at Steve, who's coughing for real now with his shattered ribs probably sticking into his lungs. It's most likely a horrific injury even if it isn't fatal, but if it's even worse than that it'll be a slow, painful death without treatment. That's lucky - they have Soldier blood with Red close by and fresh syringes full of his in Luis' bag, a lot more at the clinic in storage a bit farther away. She's sure Steve has ample time to get fixed up, if Zola just holds off on hurting him more a bit longer. 

"There's this old musician I really enjoy," Arnim says down at the mechanic, "and he has a song I believe is particularly apt for this occasion. How does it start?" 

Arnim tilts his head, taking those seconds to fuck with his prisoner like Nat hoped he would. Just a little more time. Draw out your bullshit, you bastard, instead of being pragmatic. 

"Ah yes," the doctor continues. "_Love is a burnin' thing._" 

Zola sparks up the flare as he says the lyrics, metallic eyes reflecting the light a hundred fold as he leers down at the small man. Nat realizes Steve is about to lose the most important person in the world to him with a flick of Arnim's wrist. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where are they? They should be in place by now.

She doubts Buck can survive being lit up, poisoned and weak, unable to heal much if at all. He'd been in top condition before the firepit at the reavertown and still barely made it. And there's so much accelerant, so much. Zola is turning, moving to toss the flare.

Steve rolls on his side, swinging a free arm from under his back, and jams a round handful of tranq darts into Zola's leg. 

Nat had heard some of them bounce off Buck's metal arm when she saw the assault on him from the wall, but hadn't realized where they'd landed, hadn't seen the darts among the scrubgrass in the weak light before she'd knocked Steve on his back. 

"There's your ring of fire, you son of a bitch!" the mechanic spits as Arnim screeches with pain.

The doctor kicks the blonde's ribs again, hard, then falls to one knee. 

"Kill them! Kill them all!" Zola wails, clutching at the darts, ripping them out. 

The man guarding Steve screams with his master, fires his handgun at the blonde. A bullet tears off part of his skull and he drops. A barrage of gunfire is unleashed from the wall on Zola and his people. Those Xers with standard weapons return fire. Those with tranq guns ready themselves as they hear quick footsteps coming up the side of the trench through the smoke, expecting the fourth Soldier to emerge. 

Monet leaps in the middle of them instead, wearing the goggles and mask of a Soldier to protect her eyes, nostrils and mouth from the darts. She draws all their attention and fire, starts tearing through them as her armored skin deflects the darts, chucking the tranq guns (or the entire person attached to them) one by one into the burning moat. 

Red runs up from the other direction and drops Luis on his feet before speeding up to tackle the forklift over like it's an opposing team's quarterback. It lands on its side with a crash, crushing several Xers, Buck thudding half on the ground. The big ginger is up and going at Zola in seconds, kicking him hard in the chest - away from Steve - as the doctor tries to rise on his injured leg. 

" 'Member me, fuckface?" Red says through his mask just loud enough for Arnim to hear him - the doctor's eyes go wide, then narrow.

"Part of me was hoping it would be you in there, _mister Wezolowski_," Zola responds, slow and measured as he puts up his fists. "You'll find my bones much harder to break than _last time_."

"You'll squeal jus' as loud as las' time 'fore I'm done," the big ginger replies, getting into a boxing stance. 

Luis is busying himself with the bolt cutters from the truck. They're the same ones Nat remembered retrieving at the reavertown with... It felt like ages ago they were handed down to free Buck, the same use they're being put to now. 

Natasha's captors are distracted enough she can abruptly drop low in the grip of the two Xers holding her arms, pulling free from the one behind her. She swings her legs up in a smooth arc as her top half falls back, driving the rope between her ankles against the barrel of his weapon as he fires at her movement, blasting through her binding. 

Using momentum to swing her legs back down, she parts them wide and bends her knees, kicking the men holding her arms squarely in their crotches. They both release her instantly and as she drops she grabs the pistols from their holsters, curls her back to land on her shoulder blades as her arms and legs come up. She shoots all three in the head, then springs back up on her feet. Seconds later she's blasting an Xer as he fires at Luis.

The green-eyed man is injecting Buck with several syringes of uppers specially designed for the Soldiers from the med kit and some of Red's blood. He cuts his arm and presses it over Buck's mouth for good measure, them heals the wound with more blood from the big ginger. Finally he arms his friend with a machete from one of the reaver's corpses, pounds twice on his metal shoulder, then hurries over to the other Soldiers. 

Buck is soon on all fours, shaking from the adrenaline-esque rush. The people on the wall pick off any Xer near him as Nat covers him and Luis, pistols pointed in two different directions. The brunette Soldier finally gets to his feet, flesh hand tightening on the grip of the weapon as she sees his gaze find Steve in the chaos. The mechanic is crouching low in the scrub, shooting Xers with one of their own guns. 

Tough little shit. 

The blonde notices Buck, gives him a little smile, jerks his head towards Red tangling with Zola, now joined by Monet. Buck nods back, eyes going periwinkle for the briefest moment before they turn on the doctor and glow white with rage. He runs into the fight as drinkers swarm out of the settlement to defend their leader.


	127. Nobody stands in between me and my man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has many skills.

Steve Rogers knows a lot of things, but he's a bit surprised at the ones that surface as he pulls himself across the dusty ground, as his comrades and super soldier boyfriend battle a literal evil scientist and his army. Eventually they start to follow a pattern.

Because of Taj he knows how to drive stick and pop a clutch.

How to patch a muffler with a steel soup can. 

How to build an IED under the nose of your oppressor. 

How to fix a washing machine, no matter how old or fussy. 

That's what got Taj killed. Steve just couldn't give up on this old lady's machine - it was a matter of pride - and eventually Taj had come in from his chain smoking to find out what the fuck was taking him so long. That's when she started up with the coughing. 

He knew Taj cheated at cards and took his coffee black, but slipped whiskey into it when he thought Steve wasn't looking. He knew Taj never got over his ma, kept treating him like a son because there was a time he'd thought legally he would be and he couldn't let that dream of a happy little family go. 

The surly, funny, generous repairman - who could fix anything except himself - was the closest thing he'd had to a mentor, a father. So much of who Steve was to others in the new world was defined by his skills and implementing his ideas - skills Taj had taught him, ideas he'd planted the seeds for. 

Buck is obviously not at full strength as Steve watches him tangle with Zola. His coordination is off, his movements stiff. Washington and Ramos are worse and the Followers that swarm them repeatedly keep them from their real target. Red is the only one doing fairly well against the doctor, but every strike that should do real damage to Arnim isn't as effective because of his indestructible skeleton. The snipers on the wall are doing their best to keep drinkers off of all of them but there are so many. Gunfire fills his ears.

Steve keeps dragging himself along.

He knew things from his ma too.

All the primary, secondary and tertiary colors. She'd loved art, wanted to go to college for design, but dropped out of high school to work and care for her parents. Then he came along, tiny and sick. She always said she'd never been a tenth as talented as Steve, but he disagreed. The way she wove a warm, colorful life for him with the most threadbare of materials was truly art. 

He knew how to do a basting stitch, back stitch, buttonhole stitch.

How to get out stains with lemon juice and baking soda.

How to make a bandage or tourniquet out of almost anything. 

He could use one now. Okay, he could use twenty now. And some painkillers. The burning throb in his chest and sides is familiar - he's had broken ribs before, even had one graze his lung, and this feeling is like that on steroids. They're punctured, he's sure, and a lot more than one place if how he's breathing is any indication. He knows about that too - years of childhood asthma have trained him not to panic when he can't get air. He can't speak and all he can taste is blood. 

He's wet down his back too. The drinker guarding him had just fired wildly before the sniper took them out, but one bullet had hit him. That at least doesn't really hurt, but it's because he can't feel much from mid-back down, can barely feel his legs at all though they still move a bit. It hit him in the spine. 

Steve keeps dragging himself along.

Because of Greta he knows twenty different ways to use dandelions in food.

How to preserve roots and herbs.

How grenades work. The two Win had given him are still in the pouch on the chest of Zola's uniform. 

He knows how to take apart and clean most types of rifles and handguns thanks to her too, and how to shoot them with accuracy. Picking up more pistols off the dead as he goes, he stuffs them in his waistband, fires whatever one is in his hand til it's empty then tosses it, takes out another. There are so many of the enemy and they're frantic to protect Zola from the Soldiers and Monet. They pay little mind to the petite man on the ground until it's too late. For a little while he even has a machine gun but the goddamn thing jams. _Someone_ wasn't taught how to maintenance their weapon. 

Steve's not really angry at them, feels a little sorry for them actually, and sorry for himself that he's doing this with his time instead of building something or fucking (God, why did it have to take him so long to discover how amazing sex could be?) or working on his collage. But Buck and the others need this from him right now, so he does what has to be done, like so many other times before. 

Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Feel the gun vibrate up his arm each time. Like around the fire in Brock's camp after the suitcase bomb went off. 

Because of Jack he knows about explosions. He knows grenades can be very unstable. 

He knows about finding some modicum of focus in the middle of chaos. He knows about dragging your battered body across the ground with the enemy all around you to protect the one you love. 

Because of Win he knows how to swear in Cantonese. 

He knows what real friendship is like. The ride or die kind. The make our own fun no matter what kind. The wear each other's clothes kind. The stay thick as thieves even though she doesn't love you _that way_ kind. The attack a mutant creature with a wrench as it chokes you with its robot arm kind. The sacrifice yourself kind.

The two grenades Win had given him are still in the pouch on the chest of Zola's uniform. 

Because of Fury he knows that the best choice for the greater good is often not the popular one. Not the comfortable one. Sometimes you just have to see a thing done even if you don't know where the chips will fall after. 

He feels the dead around him now like his own little army, urging him to go on. 

Steve keeps dragging himself along.

Ramos and Washington are out of play, down on the ground and riddled with holes they are having difficulty healing. Nat is surrounded, back to back with Luis. The green-eyed man - injured a dozen places - is trying his best to be helpful, taking people out at the kneecaps with a crowbar or slugging them and letting her finish them off then tossing her their weapons and ammo. Silly he won't just shoot people, but he's no killer. Steve realizes of all the things about Luis he is jealous of, he envies that the most. 

Zola hits Red hard, knocking him back. Twenty drinkers swarm the big ginger and their weight combined with him being off balance put him over the moat edge into the smoking trench below. The fools sacrificed themselves to the possible twisted wreckage and flames. Buck and Monet are all that's left against the doctor now. 

Even her sharp, hard claws are no match for his skeleton, though she easily cleaves meat from bone. Zola is healing fast though, so fast, and Buck isn't. Monet's not as strong as them either, not even close - the doctor snags her wrist and chucks her. Drinkers pile on her as soon as she lands, pull off her goggles, try to jam things into her eyes as she desparately protects them with her hands. 

Steve is close now. Just a bit farther. His mind turns from the dead to the living. 

Steve knows Nat plays cat's cradle almost obsessively when she's alone and has an actual string collection just for it. He was surprised when he'd discovered she had so many - he assumes it's the different tactile sensations. Doing it shuts off the chattering in her mind the way making art did for him or practicing his old carnie routine did for Clint.

He knows she likes jigsaw puzzles. He'd always meant to make her one but never got around to it. 

He knows that occasionally, just occasionally, when he was too drunk to possibly remember the next day, she would sing Clint a Russian lullaby to get him to fall asleep faster. 

He knows _bad things_ have happened to Nat. The kind you don't talk about because they've made you so hard on the surface there's not a single crack for them to get out of. Steve related to that, always, and never pried. He regrets that now. Maybe if he had asked, had opened up about his own stuff, she could have too. Maybe things could be easier for her. Better. 

He knows she loves Clint. He knows she doesn't know how to show it. He could relate to that too.

Steve knows Clint likes his coffee with cinnamon in it and he's terrified of possums. He likes hugs more than anyone else Steve has ever met, but doesn't like to admit it because a hug freely given is better than one asked for. After hugs, his favorite thing is cats, the mangier the better. 

Grown men aren't allowed to admit they like cats. Kittens maybe, but not cats. Clint gave no shits about what grown men were supposed to do, not ever. Steve hadn't appreciated enough how rare and great that was. 

The archer had spent an hour once trying to coax an ancient, raggedy Persian out from under a house before Fury ordered him back in the transport. He'd pouted the whole way home and Steve had a hard time sussing out how the whole ordeal made him feel. The mechanic still firmly believed he didn't like Clint then and it put the smallest weak spot in his armor against the man. 

Maybe that was why the archer liked Steve so much - like a cat, he was small but dangerous. It took time and patience to get him to warm up, his claws always sharp and ready no matter how familiar he was with you, eyes scanning a situation looking for a safe place to scurry to at a moment's notice. That had been the way with Clint for a long time. He and Steve could play together just fine, but when it came time for a chin rub the mechanic lashed out or hid. 

Steve had only just started to learn how nice metaphorical scratches behind the ears could be, that all affection - especially from men - didn't come with a price tag. It would be near the top of his regrets that he'd been such a bastard to the man so often, that the feral parts of his brain squawked DANGER no matter how warm the sun of Clint's affection was on his fur. 

Maybe they were littermates in another life. Baby brother and big brother. 

Steve gets to his feet leaning against the tipped over forklift. He can barely feel them, and he's surprised they support his weight, but he needs a better line of sight. Zola kicks Buck and he flies back. Drinkers pin him and he makes slow progress throwing them off because he's so weakened. The doctor picks the sputtering flare off the ground to light the Soldier up; he's still soaked in kerosene. 

Steve Rogers knows above all things that he loves Buck. 

He raises his handgun.

The drinker with the ten scratches down his face is there suddenly, grabbing at it. Steve is in so much pain, but he's determined. Just as he's sure the young man will get his weapon, Red reaches out of the pit, his skin scorched and his back and legs still on fire. He grabs the drinker and pulls his feet out from under him. 

Steve has known since Zola's foot came down the second time he was rightly and truly fucked, beyond the help even Soldier blood and Banner together could provide. The bullet had cemented that certainty. But it didn't matter. He'd stopped Arnim from torching Buck then and he would stop him now.

The mechanic levels his handgun at Zola again and the monster sees, sees and stops to sneer, to laugh at the futility of shooting him yet one more time. 

The two grenades Win had given him are still in the pouch on the chest of Zola's uniform. The doctor, brilliant as he is, seems to have forgotten. Steve fires into them in quick succession and in seconds one detonates, then sets off the other, two distinct explosions back to back. Steve is just far enough way he doesn't catch much of the blast wave (and what does it matter now?) but he crouches instinctively. 

When the mechanic opens his eyes he sees Arnim's upper half and the drinkers that were on Buck are obliterated. The doctor's fleshy lower abdomen and shredded legs are still mostly solid and semi-clad, along with a bit of his scalp still clinging on, but he's _gone_ otherwise. Virtually all the flesh is eviscerated from his chest, arms, shoulders, neck and face. The doctor's organs, visible through his ribs, are mush from the concussion wave and those without the protection of his bones are soup spilling out on the ground. His eyes are gone too. 

Zola collapses on his back and Steve sags over the forklift, lets out a wet, wavering sigh of relief. Red is there, hands wandering over his wet back, pulling at his clothes to find the source of the blood. The blonde feels something - WS issued tweezers most likely - slide into the mostly numb bullet hole. Then the sting of injections. He must be healing quick after the first because the second hurts like hell. He wants to tell the big ginger it's all for nothing, that his insides are too fucked for him to receive enough, but he can't talk so he just lets Red do his thing. 

Across the scrub, Buck is slowly sitting up, pushing off chunks of drinker. A sound draws his attention as well as that of the others'. Arnim's jaw is clacking open and shut, exposed teeth slamming against each other. His brain was probably damaged by the concussion wave and any shrapnel that went through his eye sockets, but he's still some semblance of alive and very slowly healing. Steve looks over his shoulder at Red then slaps one of the tines on the forklift. 

The big ginger nods, stands, snaps the huge piece of pointy metal off and carries it to Buck. They each get a double grip on the tine and lift it high, slamming it point down onto the doctor's exposed cervical vertebrae again and again until the discs sever and his head rolls off. The drinkers wail in unison and collapse, kicking, convulsing. More can be heard doing the same inside the moat, inside Claptrap. Buck kicks Zola's still-twitching body into the trench. He's bent over for a few brief seconds, hands on his knees, panting. 

Finally he looks up, eyes finding Steve's. They exchange a smile and the Soldier's eyes slowly turn periwinkle. 

The mechanic collapses.


	128. Sleep now in my arms, forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream that we won't wake from ever  
Sleep now, in my arms

Buck has very little left to give mentally or physically. He is exhausted, barely able to focus, to stay upright, his body throbbing from sluggishly healing cuts, contusions, breaks and sprains. The punctures from the venom have not even begun to close, the areas too thick with the toxin for his impure blood to do anything. He hears the sound of flesh being rended and looks around to find Monet methodically killing the drinkers with the stab of a claw through their temple, jugular or heart. 

Part of him revolts at the idea, murdering these poor lunatics when they are down, but after seeing how quickly and easily they were made to serve a new master he cannot find fault in her actions - they chose to drink from Rumlow, knowing what a power-crazed monster he was. He cannot imagine undeserving would do that. Too tired to put effort into the ethical gymnastics of considering the subject, he is certain they have no way to house or feed dozens of prisoners. This end is quick at least and they do seem to be suffering. 

Suddenly he is painfully _aware_ of suffering far closer - the little mechanic slumps over the wrecked forklift and slides to the ground, his sensations barreling into Buck like a meteor from the heavens. Neither of them are able to shut their bond in their weakened states. There is so much pain and it is so difficult to breathe that it feels like Buck is back in the fire and smoke of the pit at the reavertown, lit up, choking, near death. 

Grabbing Red's arm with his metal one, he leans close, gives him his words, then starts dragging him towards the little mechanic. Buck knows his own blood is useless, poisoned. The pain, the sensation of asphyxiation over the bond, are horrific. 

How is Steve so calm? 

Maybe the little mechanic believes Buck will help him quickly and his suffering will end.

Maybe Steve believes he cannot be helped at all and his suffering will end an entirely different way. 

No.

Nononononononononono.

"Heal him!" Buck rasps at Red as he drops next to Steve.

The big ginger and Luis meet eyes briefly. The smaller man is in less imminent danger now that the drinkers are largely out of play and that's a relief to Red and Jon. The lady assassin is killing the enemy where they lay with ruthless efficiency until the green-eyed man grabs her arm, directs her attention to Steve. They start making their way over to join Buck and the others.

The redheaded Soldier drops to his knees, starts assessing the mechanic. The part of himself that's Red had partially taken over their body in the fight, even more so once they were burned. _Jon_ is just a passenger, observing, commenting, Red keeping him carefully separated from their body's pain. Pain he cannot allow to show as he plays along that he is under a limiter's control, even though they are burnt severely on their neck and arms. Jon does feel emotional pain though - Red, after pushing up Steve's shirt, moving him this way and that to carefully touch and observe, knows Steve's condition is far too grave to save him. 

Jon wants to reveal this news himself to Buck, as the self the man Buck once was would know, as the man he had once held close like a brother. Buck shouldn't have to hear it clinically expressed from blank-faced Red. But revealing his duality would be a whole other complication, one not worth adding to the mix when Jim - Buck - doesn't seem to remember much about Jon except his knickname, Wez, anyway. The brunette hasn't mentioned anything about their past together since the cargo truck before he'd gone to the Xer city. As Jon so often does with difficult situations, he lets Red deal with it.

"His ribcage is shattered and the bone splinters have severely damaged his lungs, along with his liver and both kidneys," Red states, pointing to various points of deformity and discoloration on Steve's chest and sides. As thin as he is, the severe damage to his always-visible ribs is obvious. "He has massive internal bleeding. He is beyond the ability to be saved even with a maximum Soldier blood allotment and intervention by a skilled surgeon. I cannot comply with your order to heal him." 

Buck grabs the top of Red's scorched vest with his metal hand, gives him a shake. "Fix him!" he demands, voice thick with emotion. 

"He has dozens of injuries that would each prove fatal. Removing the bone fragments and healing even a fraction of the damage would be more blood than his nervous system could handle. It would also require cutting into him to reach the splinters, requiring yet further blood to heal him. There is no logical course to proceed. I cannot comply with your order to fix him." 

"Then I will do it!" Buck insists. "Provide me with your blood! I know you are stocked with syringes for this purpose." 

Steve, with great effort, reaches up and puts his hand on Buck's knee. When the brunette Soldier looks down at the mechanic he shakes his head, tries to mouth words, coughs up blood. 

Red hands Buck a filled syringe. He has no excuse not to obey, knowing Buck will literally search him if he claims he does not have one, and he does not want to reveal their sentience. The others would believe they were a threat. Jon would not be safe. 

"I am sorry, little mechanic," Buck offers, lifting Steve's hand from his leg to his face. He rubs his cheek across the smaller man's palm, then kisses it. "I will have to cut you open, to remove the rib fragments and reset them. It will hurt a great deal." He sets the mechanic's hand back on his knee. 

Steve slowly shakes his head again, tries to speak. 

"Stop!" Nat yells, kneeling down next to Steve. "Red is right! He's right. And this will just make Steve suffer more." 

The mechanic nods his agreement.

"No!" Buck yells at her. "No," he insists, turning his gaze back to the blonde. "I will not let you die."

"You can't stop it," Natasha reiterates. "You'd just be torturing him for nothing."

Buck moves to cut and she grabs the handle of the knife.

"Look at him!" she yells. "You have the same training in anatomy Red does, the same I do I'm sure. You know we're right!" Her voice softens as she removes her hand. "Don't let your last minutes with Steve be this." 

The brunette Soldier visibly deflates as reality sets in. He reholsters his knife. Buck looks so lost, so helpless and terrified as he stares into the sea-blue eyes, his own periwinkle shot through with foggy gray-white and shiny with tears. The little mechanic smiles at him and nods, gives his knee a squeeze. The bigger man can feel Steve's calm through their bond and that his pain is reducing. 

No. Not reducing. Becoming distant. 

It terrifies him and he clutches the little mechanic's hand.

Steve looks to Nat and he mouths a silent _thank you_, gives her a little smirk. He manages to get his hands up enough to make a gesture like he's shooting a bow and arrow. 

"I'll tell Clint," Nat says solemnly. 

She leans down, kisses his forehead, then gets up and walks away, gathering weapons and adding them to her belt as she heads back to Claptrap. 

"Red," Buck says quietly, not looking away from Steve, "go and help those inside the settlement. Follow Natasha's orders." 

The big ginger gets up and runs over to join the assassin. Luis looks after them both, then to Buck, then to Steve, unsure what to say or do. There are still drinkers everywhere, groaning, and he doesn't want to leave Winter unprotected if any of them gather their wits. His grip tightens on his crowbar.

"Steve, I..." the green-eyed man starts, stops.

"Leave us alone, Luis," Buck says softly. "Please." He offers the green-eyed man the blood-filled syringe.

"Tell... Tell everyone I say hi," Luis offers the mechanic softly, then gets up and walks a ways off.

He starts fixing himself up with the Soldier blood, then quickly takes to gathering weapons from the downed in his backpack just to keep himself busy, to ignore the fresh tears sliding down his cheeks. He can feel Buck's misery like molten lead twisting through his guts. Luis doesn't shut it out completely; his friend is going to need their connection more than ever soon. 

Buck leans down, presses his lips to Steve's. "I love you," he sobs. "I love you."

The blonde mouths the words back and Buck kisses him again, then sits up enough to readjust Steve's clothes, covering him back up so he will be warm. As he pulls the jacket closed he feels Jack's lighter in one of the mechanic's pockets. He takes it out, flips it open, looks down at himself, wet with kerosene. 

"I do not want to live without you." 

Steve shakes his head vigorously, reaches up for Buck. 

"I will wait, until you are gone, so that it will not hurt you over our bond. Then I will follow." 

Steve looks to Luis, scavenging the battlefield, juts his chin at him as if to ask _what about him?_

"I can block him out more easily. He will not feel it."

The mechanic shakes his head again, knits his brows and quirks his lips into the Steve expression for calling bullshit.

"But this way, we can be together." Buck lights the Zippo, looks at the flame - he is terrified of fire, knows how badly it will hurt, but he cannot imagine that pain will be more than what he will feel when the little mechanic leaves him. 

The blonde reaches up and closes the lighter. He shakily lifts his hand. His lips move. _Always together,_ Buck thinks Steve says, trying hard to read his lips, a skill he has some practice in from the facility. He was not designed to spy, to do reconnaissance, but he had started to teach himself before they had chipped him, to know what they plotted as they watched him through the glass. 

"I do not understand," the Soldier rasps, leaning closer. "How can we be together if you go and I stay?" 

Steve presses his splayed hand over Buck's face, opens to their bond completely. A flood of feelings and memories spills into the Soldier, thousands of them roiling together like massive rivers, flowing into an endless ocean. Certain ones emerge at the surface, the little mechanic guiding them. 

Steve feeding him berries as he pouted on the floor. Their first kiss. Steve inside him and the opposite. Their swim at the hotel. Many other shared moments of fun and comfort and pleasure. 

There are other things he cannot make out deeper down, things he thinks are Steve's life before he knew him, all of the little mechanic's past pouring into him. 

A dozen memories collage together of Steve telling Buck he loves him - at the movie screening, after Buck had touched him in the hotel, so many others. 

_I love you. I love you. I love you. I love - _

The bond cuts off abruptly and Steve's hand drops. 

Buck cannot form words - he can only scream and wail as he presses his face to the side of Steve's, arms curling around his head. 

The little mechanic is gone. 

He does not know how long he hunches there, sobbing, clinging to him. 

A noise makes him raise his gaze. There are drinkers starting to get up, their broken sounds nearly as mournful as his own, turning to snarls of rage as they see him. They lift on unsteady feet, stumble towards him. Maybe they will swarm him, end him. He looks into Steve's eyes one last time then gently closes them. Squeezing the lighter in his other hand, he considers waiting till the enemy are close then lighting himself, taking more than a few of them with him. It is not what Steve wanted but...

Buck hears a familiar grunt and looks up to see Luis grappling with several drinkers that were headed at the Soldier. They are yelling and mumbling incoherent nonsense and seem almost feral, their movements erratic, swiping at him with curled fingers. His friend manages to shove them back, hits one in the throat with his crowbar.

He stares back down into Steve's face. He looks so peaceful, so beautiful. He does not want to leave him. Gently, he fixes a hair of Steve's that is out of place. He squeezes the lighter, pops it open, fingers the flint. It is against his belly, wet with kerosene. It would only take a spark...

"Winter!" Luis yells. 

The name triggers the blonde's memories of Luis - the green-eyed man calling him that special name as he rushes to Buck's defense when he was burnt and out cold at the reavertown, even though he was surrounded by armed strangers and Luis was chained. The way Luis helped the others fix him, the way he cared for him when he was unconscious in Steve's bed after. A hundred other kindnesses big and small Buck had not noticed or been privy to come to him through Steve's recollections. 

The memories turn to more than just Luis - Nat, Clint, Vic, Violet, Paul, even Jasper appear among others in happy moments together. 

This is what Steve meant, that they would be always together in their memories. The little mechanic would live in him forever, be with him until his end, showing him another perspective, a constant reminder there was more to live for. 

The drinkers are pulling Luis down, one taking his weapon as another draws a knife. Monet is cutting through others to get to him, but they are rising quickly, clutching at her by the dozens. Inside Claptrap, the battle loudly rages on. 

He cannot let their friends die. He cannot let their home fall. 

Buck springs into action, clearing the zealots off Luis and Monet. He finds one of the WS submachine guns and makes quick work of those left.

"Protect the others," he tells Luis, looking to Washington and Ramos before handing him back his crowbar and a handgun. "You should move them, and Steve, away from the entrance. If any attempt escape, they will come near here." 

These tasks will keep Luis out of the town, far from the fighting and there are few if any of the enemy left outside the wall. 

After a second he adds softly, "Please do not let anyone else touch him." 

Luis gives him a sympathetic look, nods. 

Steve's body does not need defending, but Buck cannot stand the thought that the enemy may desecrate it out of revenge. Buck and Monet run into the town, into the fight. 

It is a hard-won battle, but in the end the Claptrappers are victorious. The cannibals seem willing to fight to the last of them, but the remainder retreat after Natasha kills their queen. Many of the drinkers revive from their stupors with rabid, hysterical ferocity, eager to avenge their master, to quell the pain of his absence in their minds. But there is no plan or skill to their attacks - many not even bothering to pick up their weapons from where they fell - and they are easy to best. Some, confused to the point of seeming lobotomized, wander off and more than a few kill themselves. 

The other Xers - those that did not drink from Rumlow and get inherited by Zola - flee when it becomes obvious they cannot win. Many don't make it back across the moat with snipers firing on them from the wall. Jasper takes to the drone feeds once things have died down and eventually finds some of them at a small caravan miles out - their supply train, most likely, kept safe from the combat zone. The rest scatter in small groups across the scrub, some taking vehicles that were still functional once they crossed the moat and others just running on foot. They send Red after those ones and they don't get far. 

When he is no longer needed in the community, the fight over, Buck finds Luis. He has the Soldiers and Steve as requested and had done his best to help the former and clean up the latter. The blood is gone from the little mechanic's face and the dirt from his hair. Buck gently lifts the blonde, carries him back to their home through streets filled with Claptrappers putting down the injured enemy where they lay, others already moving corpses to start the process of scavenging. They keep a few prisoners, for intel, for blood. 

Steve's body is already less warm as Buck lays him on their kitchen table, undresses him, washes every inch of him and brushes out his hair. He puts both of their favorite sleepshirt on him, the nightie Nat had so often commented on, along with a pair of heavy socks he would wear to sleep in sometimes when it was particularly cold at night. 

Buck gathers up all their bedding from the mattress and carries it to the vehicle still holding the asset crate, lays it carefully in the cab, then empties the huge metal box completely and wipes it out thoroughly with rags. He puts the bedding inside, closes the lid, and attempts to take the crate down, but it is so heavy and he is weakened. Others see his struggle and come to help. From their faces they know about Steve. They follow his lead and carry it to the hillside where they had watched the movie - it is the first place the little mechanic had ever told Buck he loved him. 

He places it precisely where they had sat that night, opens it, carefully arranges what is inside. The others wander off, but Luis stays and follows Buck silently when he leaves. The Soldier walks to the area where he guesses Win to be.

"They should be together," Buck says softly.

Luis nods, picks her up carefully, takes her back to Steve's house. He cleans her up, goes to her place and comes back with her favorite pillow and the huge t-shirt she would often wear at home - he puts it on her. The green-eyed man picks the welder up again, Buck doing the same with the mechanic, and they take their bodies to the crate, tuck them in to the bedding like they are going to sleep. 

Buck explains he had read that death was sometimes called eternal slumber, that the living hoped the departed would rest in peace. Like many things, he had taken the sentiment very literally. Luis knows it is easier for the Soldier to think about their loved ones as drifting off to sleep and never waking up than to consider they are corpses that need burning or burying. It's easier for him too if he's honest. 

The crate was indestructible, air tight. They would remain on the hillside forever, maybe until the world burned to ash from the inevitable expansion of the sun. Maybe Buck would be here then too. 

The Soldier kisses Steve goodbye a final time, runs his fingers through his hair. Luis cannot bare to feel Win's lips gone cold. He fluffs the pillow beneath her head as he whispers his goodbyes into her ear. Together, they close the box, walk back to the bustle of activity, and with their friends and neighbors begin the slow, hard work of rebuilding their community and themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! You're probably very upset with me right now, and I totally snotty cried while I wrote this. Less than two years ago a friend of mine was murdered and this was sort of a cathartic expression of dealing with that loss, especially seeing her in her casket. 
> 
> But, don't be too sad or angry - there are definitely more Claptrap Tales to come with a lot more fun, love, sex and adventure for our heroes. Big changes for some of our favs, shocking twists, and some side characters, like Bruce, Eddie and Anna Marie (anyone figured out who that is yet?) along with some now-minor OCs getting more screentime. 
> 
> And of course, angst and a bit of suffering 🤣 But like, not as bad as this story, cause woah (woe).
> 
> I am SO GRATEFUL to everyone who read, commented, bookmarked, left kudos, made fan art (working on getting that up) or told others about my work. It really has meant the world to me and I look forward to your interactions as much as you all look forward to me posting new chapters. I wish you all 💜✌️🍰 and safety 😷.


	129. Sequel coming soon!

FYI, I just wanted to let everyone who has this bookmarked still know that the sequel - A Winter Soldier Leaves Claptrap - is being worked on and I hope to start posting chapters by mid-September to early October at the latest. I'm also going to have a few extras thrown up soon to help folks familiarize with the universe, such as a timeline of events and possibly some character bios, maybe even a side story or two. Stay tuned. Hugs to you all and thanks for all the love!!!


	130. A Winter Soldier Leaves Claptrap

Chapter one of the sequel, A Winter Soldier Leaves Claptrap, along with a timeline to refresh on the events of A Winter Soldier Comes to Claptrap have been posted. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an epic multi-part series in my squidgy little dome. I hope you'll bare with me as this is my first slashfic. Think The Road Warrior meets the Marvel Universe with equal parts sci-fi and realism (probably few to no "super powers" but a few government experiments, possible mutations and whatnot in the mix). 
> 
> It will get dark AF and has a lot of triggery material but there will also be humor and fun. I'll probably throw in a lot of original characters because they're there in my head canon and because writing some of the same old people can get tropey or feel like you're shoehorning them in. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feedback and constructive criticism heavily appreciated.


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